You'd think if I were inspired in the bathroom I'd try to rush to finish
(I stare at my heart-shaped lips in the mirror for a second).
Sometimes I'm oppressed by the spaces I occupy;
My right hand is cold from being near the window.
I'm only inspired to write when I read other poets.
I think about putting my hands in the wet stone Roman letters
And it reminds me of him, for some reason
I don't know if it's cuz I thought of his beautiful
Or maybe just something I wanted to show him.
I could write a sonnet,
if I felt like I needed to.