I leave the library,
ink on my left hand and blood on my right.
Grey faced, walking out into the night.
Back to the pillow that belongs to my head.
Back to the man who lies in my bed.
Awaiting my return.
I think the trees can see, they are swaying
in time with my gait.
Time I lost track of as it grew so late.
Problems and problems and concepts and theories.
Whirling around my sick beaten head like a blueprint halo.
Almost there five steps to go,
till I reach my car and my wrists drive me home.
It only takes half of forever but the apartment can
only move so far away in a day.
The door knob is exactly where I left it hanging
I fall onto it like a life in need of some saving.
Inside I can see where you have been.
This thing has moved and the dishes are done.
I smell cologne in the bedroom but no one is home.