Fret Buzz

       I already miss the feeling of your calloused fingers
                                            and the hollow of collarbones.
Sundays and us, considering Vonnegut in monotone,
                                               or the sensuality of earlobes.

    Alternating episodes of depression and drowsiness
                                      marked by half-empty coffee cups.
 All limbs and guitar strings, Grey Reverend hauntings
                                      and the softness of every tiny paw.

      I told you that I would try and not  fall asleep again
                                                    but I couldn't even do that.
         I could only keep my eyes open just long enough
                                             to watch as you shut the door.