worst.date.ever i thought nothing could taste worse than the reek of long, unwittingly dead tobacco breeding into the car seats not satisfied with having torn apart every wall seam brick tile and glass then she says oh wait this i have to take it's my ex not the ex, just another ex whose exdom is kinda recent but y'see i'm under construction right you should not bar y'self from construction and exs are like parts that you must hang on to nothing i lived you see is ever done with ever finished, otherwise i'd be finished that's one of the moments when the nicotine and tar kick into my health sense wrecking the peace, those finely tuned stanzas here see? this line just went off and her comm link rings again tied to infinite humanity like algae it's my son, oh, wait, wait, wa wait, wait he wants his appointment scheduled, with a dentist, it's he's i'm he just turned thirty, his dad that's my Ex, he never (eyes glaze) ((mine)) but you and i we are so different in that your foundations allow for, and i quote from roman law no room for anything but the rule my left foot twitches and remembers how as a kid i saw daniel day lewis playing christy someone his father wrote about years and the bleeding that comes with the writing of years it was a nice movie several irishmen drank and smoked but the couch and the walls did not take in the stench from the stubs i say you should go, let's have dinner someday always the gentleman never wishing to be even close to the cavalierdom which furrows under the skin of most latinos how quaint she says that one can go on on one's own gender not being something you build without for a moment stopping to see that all the exs are exs no? we hug the engine drones up, maybe nothing will come of the wheezing noise on cold damp days after the last fix whatever happened to people - unrelated, i surmise, to this here tall glass - since blowing soap bubbles was as cool as any sunset complete with orange peel and kisses must have creeped upon everyone ever so slowly

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow's dust flares into breath.
- Mark Strand