it’s one in the morning
or more
and it’s raining glitter
that you can see but can’t touch.

I have told you some of my worse stories.
I have stolen your time again.
there’s a hole in me somewhere
I am trying to fill with crumpled papers
and endless coffee
and the sound of you laughing.
maybe some day
I’ll find something that will really clot the wound.
until then

I try hard not to think about the news
and I am so lucky that for me
it is news
and not my reality.
when you run late I worry
you must have been in an accident.
I measure the grief before I’m even sure it’s real.

they are asking me to pour in
my blood and sweat ...