i find you
sitting in your wicker chair,
spitting out jeopardy answers
religiously
as if this sunday didn't
give in to the semantics
of your prayers
like you want it to --
you sing hymns of nicotine-hiccups,
sighing with its comfort
because sleeping-syrup
isn't enough to keep you numb.
i have a hunch your
depression-slouches
would call for profanities
(god damn you to hell
is your favorite)
that's how i know you.
when the effects
wear off on your yellow fingers
i know you think of me,
hoping remnants of your breath
lingers.