within a lifetime i've lived
maybe, five others
today i'm a practicing salesman
selling myself ideas, concepts—
things that won't age or turn
brown if i forget to cover
them in saran wrap
earlier, i sold myself
a heinous thought:
the indelible absence
imprinted on your side of the
bed has left me with less room
than your small frame ever had
well,
shaking the sentiment in
my hand like a broken toy,
i carefully laid the
thought down among the
other worn trinkets
i shook his hand
and said goodbye, then
circled the bazaar
until i came back
to his familiar face
with his grungy, pointed
finger, he aimed his
and my attention toward
another item, an idea:
i never realized how much
time i spent
looking forward
to seeing you again until
all of my time was
mine to waste
a sort of tired look
took over the
merchant's face and,
digesting his commodity,
it seemed to me
as though it would be
easier to negotiate gravity,
than it would be to reject
his venture
so i fingered my pocket
for sympathy and,
not unlike an addict,
allowed the memory
to take me somewhere else