I wish I had
more of me
to bleed into these
scribbles that I manage
to dribble onto paper scraps,
squish into the white spaces
of dinner receipts
and food flyers
at the red light turning green,
over both sides
of a coffee-stained envelope
still glued shut
at all its seams,
onto napkins torn by the point
I’m dying to make,
scraping the same lines
over the same cotton fibers
until I squeeze out a drop
and write
about something or other,
if I could just remember
wherever these rips
were heading
before the pen
dry-locked
and forgot
what I meant to say.
