You called me today and I spoke the hollow words that we both thought you needed me to say. Hollow words, hollow men. I thought I would email you that poem. I wrote you one instead:
Counting the days has grown weary
and I don’t know what I’m waiting for
Sartre leaves me knotted.
His truth before sleep is unkind.
I will dig up this pride, this discreet madness.
You are the trouble with me
As gold strands unravel
I will rub calloused toes against the crease in the sheet.
Under metallic amber sky
You will find the sacred sleep.