Empty Bed

today I have nothing much to write except
the secret corners of strangers that I have yet to touch
and my loneliness. the things I drop from my pockets
as I walk down sidewalks, flanked by friends who wish
they had the tools to crack me open. I do not say
the things that wait behind my eyelids, unless I say
them to myself in the dark. and I have lost track
of the roads that lead me to my loved ones, or the ones
who would love me if they could, I have forgotten
what love looks like in the daylight. what I remember
now is mostly cigarette smoke and the haze of three
in the morning, the faces I’ve kissed that I cannot
remember to this day. I am frivolous and I am in flight
and even hate cannot quite tether me to the ground
the way it used to. my voice trails off and the sound lands
on drifting ghosts. I am becoming a phantom myself, floating
from bedside to bedside and fooling myself into thinking
that collecting nights of half-remembered sex like
dead butterflies in glass boxes can pass for intimacy
all I have when I am done is a handful of names
to add to my list and a trail of people who still do not
know me, still either wish they understood me or wish
they’d never met me in the first place. it is hard to say
whether I create or destroy more these days, whether
I leave something worth leaving behind me or
whether my wake is bitter or sweet to the taste
because all that is under my tongue now is sea salt
and I have a liking for the ocean, but perhaps
it is not for everyone. I am growing weary of waiting
but I suppose that only time will tell me what to do
and I will remain in the place between
other people’s dirty sheets
and my own empty bed.