I stopped thinking about -- a long time ago
-- became some kind of object
that I kept in the bottom of my sock drawer
or on the top shelf
buried beneath warm comforter for winter
in my closet,

but I guess because of my convenience.
I have fucked myself over.

and now everything is
a bad Pet Shop Boys cover
of an Elvis song.

with backs craned over
the hoods of cars
and turning pages together,
I'll fall asleep alone tonight.

the only one that feels this way
--as difficult as forgetting
how to ride a bicycle

my voice doesn't
want to sing alone

--so soft against me;
i'll never feel that again.