expectations.

i am so worn down

    from looking in the hall mirror

    & smoking on winter mornings,

        half-conscious

        of a change in tune.

art is a persistent fantasy

    of oil-paintings as calendars

    & touching other people's bodies,

        following railroads

        across adjacent time zones.

these are soft, warm hollows

    on the skin i call mine

    & they have not been kissed yet,

        disregarding

        obsessive misunderstandings.

so i seek love from bleeding hearts,

    only singing when i'm wine-drunk

    & reframe forgotten delicacies,

        taking risks

        i don't have words for.