i can't blow kisses
sometimes,
and if by respiration
i sigh,
the leaves off of trees
like ideas dying,
like the torn-out pages
will only reach the ground
blinks before fate

is a funny word,
worn like a coat button,
worn like a shoe
it's alone in the cold.

sometimes,
i'm sorry for my lungs
to take in air
inside your door,
as if i did not walk
here in the cold
taking of my coat
for you-
but i am no leaf,
or page torn-out,
so i'm sorry if
i breathe a breath
of self-preservation.