She sits smugly in her grey-blue corduroy chair,
one dead leg swung over the other, veined and hanging
like a map wedged in a car door.
She coughs another snively, snotty cough,
indignant with suspended snot and reaching Ė
she takes another gulping sip of her chocolate milk.
The powderís separating and tumbling down the tall glass
and reminds me of particles suspended in packed snow,
the soil thatís worn in, speckled like blemishes
on the face of a beauty.
She asks how Iíve been
like any decent human would,
and what can I say?
She canít help that every dimension of her being offends me.
Iíve been busy, I say.
She can relate.
I bet she can.
What does that mean?
It doesnít mean anything,
and for once Iím not being sarcastic.
Another too close, too long, desperate embrace,
she misses me, girl,
as she situates herself deeper
into the visible pores of my skin and new veins
appearing daily along my winter-white legs.