Gray

I thought about publishing a blank page
but then I started typing
and it all seemed foolish, like the sun
coming out at 4 o' clock
when it looked like rain all day
even when I walked you back to work
though I forgot what I did coming
back, I do that sometimes
think back and wonder if maybe I crossed
the street into traffic or fell
down a manhole, maybe I'm not here typing
in some serotonin nightmare final
gasp, maybe the sewer doesn't smell
as sweet as your room, maybe I'm
just suffering down here with
a broken leg; I don't know,
it all makes sense for a few seconds when
I gather up those memories and place
them one by one beside your
cold bed