you and I are from
the same place.
I start to pace
the block once more.
my fingers
on the handle
but in my own yard.

my steps are ever
silent and my
dry lips pursed
lightly, pucker,
press the back of your neck
as you stand face forward
to my closed
front door.
lick the last drop
of cedar cologne
as I wrap my
pointy candy-apple
colored nails
around your
throat.

and I  start humming.

“rage”