thursday night

on a thursday night, i read him poems

bukowski

inspired but tactless

he wonders what the thoughts are

that i do not say

and we smoke cigarettes

and snort xanax and concaine

too often i am keeping track of the time

but more often, i think of the man

my love for him

the attachments i don't mind

on thursday night

he makes art from old magazines

as i write things i surely will not let him read

we make a lust of time

abuse our sinuses

if only tonight would never end

getting rid of the possibility 

of no more tonights