I'm more logical, you're more intuitive.
Think about it.
The boy code's taught me many things. I don't cry

as the trees shed their tresses. They'll be back.
Fall fell and winter entered,
we arm-wrestled the hour 'til the sun set sooner,

you shot whiskey out your nose, onto the lap pillow,
at the dated zombies,
and the discount Halloween candy's gone, finally. Ultimately,

how many sentences are left in this particular alphabet?
It's artificial, cloudy
and waning, but darn it all if that sky aint rosy, glowing

like a fire casting embers in the old stove
in the eighties. Finally,
a trigger to family memory. The nostalgia

I smelled as I watched the building burn.
A bin of tiny people
in adorable outfits. A shoebox of love

letters. A dirty magazine. A ring. A secret
stash of heirloom
jewelry. A diary. We don't will these things

left to us. We don't get to prevent
our own history.
We don't lock doors in this house.
 

      A lot of notes lately. A snotted paper towel in my back pocket that reads,
"There's always someone to fall in love w/ @ the laundromat." Does this
betray a surging fear of forgetting? or some other insecurities? a new mole.
a white cloud frozen on my thumbnail. a strawberry birthmark, surfacing
ribcages, wild teeth, an oft-broke nose.
    All as selfish, manic, continuous as chain-smoking my roommate's
mail-order cigarettes while he's off at work. Also, rough drafts of letters.
lists of songs.
     Bluebird Wine
     We Dance
     Life on Mars
     Candy Says
     Death by Blonde       

                            These among a litter of to-do lists       make cd
                                                                                     get bike fixed
                                                                                     laundry
                                                                                     poem.
    How long has it been since I've been naked in front of another person?
Do I leave my blinds open just so I can't answer with certainty? Just
started to rain as I wrote that to you. It sounds like an air conditioner
kicking in, but we don't have an air conditioner. It's rain. Unlit, after
hours rain. Strong-arming romantic rain. This is going to be about Patsy
Cline now. No, I'm not strong enough to turn it. Should I have more
questions for you? Do you think I'm more a cello, a singing saw, a theramin
or a pedal steel? If you were to ask me (about you) my first thought was
"Tuba" though I don't feel like defending it.
   Does this read artificial? Answer me please (write back), if for nothing
else, to make it ring true in retrospect. I think I'll try to fall asleep
now. With Patsy Cline. While the rain is still clanging and whirring around
in the yard like an idiot.

I love you. I'd love to meet you. Can't wait to miss you.

                                                             - Fall'n to Pieces