Chicago wants
your hands,
the creases
of your knuckles,
the calluses
on fingers.

New York is hungry
for your history,
a collection of
the photographs
your mind took
and formed into line
and oil.

Boston knows
too well
the way you
weave your words
onto a canvas.

I am just a girl
in New Mexico
sitting by window sill,
filling journal with words
that belong to you,
bandaging the blisters
your last creation
left on your palms.

I am too soaked
to continue
to sponge the
pain that leaks
over your rim.

You are wasting time
in this desert,
choking on the dry
memories of youth,
attempting to rebuild
the house you burnt
to the ground the
ten years ago.

You have not built
a home in my bed,
you are merely
hiding there,
tracing eternity
on my sheets
pretending to be
the boy who left me
at the train station.

The cities call to reclaim
their wayward son,
posing pretty,
waiting for your hands
to define their essence.