(a little) truth (at least)

Part 1
Look up from the wine, the
half open book (with its cracked
spine, is it wounded, or
well-loved, and is there a difference?
Are dog-ears  any better, even a little, or worse?
If you find highlighter marks inside,
is it the book you forgive
or does she become unreadable?
If you find ink leaking through her pages,
do you feel suddenly the words of other men
writ(h)ing inside you, uncomfortably?
I am curious, so tell me),
and unmade bed at least
a little enough to feel morning
(filtered through the city’s tallest buildings),
chastely kiss your shoulder.

Part 2
As a rule, people are (usually) kinder in the mornings
at breakfast over warm bagels and
coffee with a little too much cream
(at least, generally)

unless you spend the night,
masticating memories,
in your too-full mouth.

Words are only water,
evaporating; I burned my tongue
once upon a time, a long long time ago,
there was a girl who never forgot anything.

Part 3
You never grind your words;
anger is rarely grace, and often survival,
so I wonder about where it all goes:

Maybe there are pockets
made of people
holding you.

(Are there?)

Part 4
“Are you afraid of heights?”

“No ”

I found my apologies lying
a few feet from the windowsill
(between the bonsai and The Blind Assassin)

“I’m sorry; I don’t remember much”

At least, I told the truth, a little.

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