i left my blood on the leaves
this fall
to astound you
though you haven't been astounded
by anything i've done
so far, and now
my words come back to me
in soundless agony
as i wonder
if you can identify me
cut up and bruised
like an apple
ready to be eaten
though i havent been ready
i guess
haven't felt you hands
on my back
and i write mounds
of poetry
to have something to do
because you're not here
and never really were
and it makes me sad
to know i can't get away with this want
because it is all i know
and all i ever
think about