but what I really mean is you're the best thing that I've ever found...

I. (if you were here)

I'd tell you about a girl who wore
god- aw(e)ful cowboy boots
and sang pretty folk songs.
You'd like her
and I'd like
to be her
or kiss her
or write about her.

She's hum hum humming
and strum strum strumming
and I'm thinking like
I think
best--
hands calloused from
dragging
along paper.

II

I want to take pictures
of the shadows
and how they change
by the end of the day.
We are not permanent
and that could be enough.

I'll call you to hear
your voice.

III.

I sleep in
a space
where your rolling papers stick
to my dresser.
Where we communicate
in Bastardized English
and tiny sounds made of consonants
in the bed with the blue
cotton sheets.

Ah,
How things are kept.
swept up
under the law of parsimony
like pieces of tarmac--
simple
but not simplistic.