If I could write my way into your bed
I most probably would

If I could cheat my way into your truth
That probably would have been a poem

If I could cry my way into your awareness
You would probably find it pathetic

In the meanwhile I will be writing my way
Under the covers, atop white cold sheets
Writing your smell, caressing the gentle curves of my poetic
ego
Celebrating my freedom
From you

Smoking the cigarette of after the poem

Happy

London, September 2003