i miss you, in short.

nailed to every poem, an inside joke
on your insides (turned inside-out
so i can see: your flesh, on the table,
like we're all made of the same stuff.)

and i think we were at one time but not
anymore, because you're still--addicting--,
still laughter, still make me think "ladder"
think "death cab" think floors,
& we stare at ceilings (I think I wrote
you, once) instead of carpet stuck
under our nails.