Bang bang, babydoll.

We used to know what our homes sounded like.
They spoke in a way not entirely unfamiliar
to us, like a lullaby. We were gently rocked

to sleep.

Now there is a branch and it scratch
scratch scratches against my window and you can't sleep
when you dream of monsters from 1953.

You want me to trim the part that hits

the vinyl siding. And I think that I may.
'Cos you reach for me in the night, to say:
Is this part of you? Am I touching a piece?

And I laugh and tell you: Yes. You are.

There is a beaten path through the woods
that I used to picnic upon -- and it was good.
Mind the ants and bears, they just want

a tiny treat. Something nice to eat.

You talk to me and there is lightning shooting
from your bones and the skin stretched across
them is smooth. A kind of perfect, but

you know I hate labels. We, the collective,

like the idea of the puzzle when it's naked
and warm and pressed together. A bed
that misses the company. But I haven't decided

who is on my pint glass.

Even as the words come out, I imagine
an amalgamate, and I laugh at the last
four letters. 'Cos that's all anyone wants, right?

To be like O'Hara, without the dune buggy?

To be unapologetically vain and wild and fucking
brutal?! To say "I've read your words about me
and I want to buy you a wedding!" Or maybe just

a cup of coffee and a room for the night. Do you see

that this is what happens at three a.m.? Menacing
every love we've ever known for hours? Not with
the phone call. Or the letter. Or the song. But with

the pining. The file folders. Our attempts at charm.

I have tried to love your god, and I have tried to love
your family. I have tried to eat your cooking and have
tried to stop your sadness, but I am not a man.

I am a child with a gun permit. Bang bang, babydoll.

Did I give you a nickname unique? Did I give you a song
to sing in the shower or on your long drive
back to the countryside? Did I tell you I loved you?

Did I then eat your heart? Save the remnants

for the collection? 'Cos I'm a hoarder, even with,
ESPECIALLY with words. And I don't know
when to stop, or how. Like the vague

confession, it means nothing. To start well-

meaning. To wear the white cape
and to talk on the telephone late.
I am a creature of habit. I am a sorry

lie. But I can still make you laugh.