the letters

you have written on various days

of the week,

are schizophrenic on my floor

with blue flames rolling

from all four corners.

don't you get it?

that letters

can't shake my brain

to understand your romance novel ways?

or

how other men can possibly treat you better?

the men you fuck are made of tracing paper.

I should fly

a plane over your apartment.

drop your letters with

spiders and scorpions

singing a lullaby with your words.

then maybe,

just maybe

I could raise the shades with a smile,

and a hot cup of coffee in hand.

how you move on with new men is beyond me.