Yesterday I wrote to you,
a letter filled with ys and dots.
Yesterday I searched for you
I ran across the desert concrete
searching for a sign of you, kept track
with bloody footprints (breadcrumbs).
Yesterday I ran and cried, this body's liquid
rose into the wind and Zeus, I hope it smacked
your windshield driving down the 101 in your fuel
efficient lotus with the windows up and AC blasting
your frozen botoxed face and lips. Your pencil is in
our ugly house, lying broken on the floor next to
a glass full of orange juice.