I don’t know if I made these knuckles for nothing. They came from home.

Like any garment, men have their seasons.
I wear them to pay the rent.

I know it is a song
as much as a scream but
it melts the walls: let me build.

How easily / I could imagine a version of our lives / in which he kept all his suffering secret from me. / I saw the beer on the counter.

The train stopped, still loads new passengers, but the conductor won’t let me get off and kiss you. You know that’s what I haunted to do.

The only currency that abides
is how we choose to spend our time.