What use of me the world does have is none.
I am certainly of no benefit
Lay me in London and leave me be
The same old cliches will still hold true:
If you are alone, you may not be lonely.

It's going to hail
The phone is ringing and I
Don't know where it is.

I often like to picture that you are floating in a red balloon
My lost love, soaring above my hands
And my head holding on,
While I know you are soaring away from me.

Perhaps when the leaves fall, we fall down as well
For all good does not appear it
Yet take down your sorrows off the shelf,
For you must be loved; it is no good to be feared.

Silence is cold but not all that is cold is silent
For your laugh is often cold
And it sends shivers down my spine
And gives me an ache in my bones which no fire can take away.

I hid in cupboards and hope that you will return
And if you don't, I myself will fly to the stars
And grab one hot one and hold it tight
Hoping that it is I who is warm, and you who is cold.

Your hands smelled like coppery feathers
Which could not bend nor break
You were proud of your feathers
But then you could not fly
You went where your feet carried you
To mountain tops, forest edges, seashores
You walked miles
Looking up at the sky and cursing those who soared above you
And you longed to spread your wings and glide too
But your bones were not hollow
And your heart was not whole
And your feathers were made of copper.

I wish I knew how to get wine off a white dress
It's not so much I wished to wear the dress again
Or that I wish it had fallen into my mouth instead to prolong the feelings,
But I wish I knew how to get that **** stain out
So that maybe instead I could give the dress away or that I may make the dress new
Sew into curtains, pillowcases, sheets, anything
If only I could've saved it.

I wonder perhaps
If I would rather be a cat
Rough toungues licking up milk
Playful with colorful yarns
The only sorrow I would know then is the emptiness of a food bowl.

Do you like to eat oranges still?
You used to.
We'd go driving at your car, way past our limits,
And sometimes, an old man would sell bags of oranges,
right off 55.
They were strung in red netting, that made them look brighter then they really were,
as if oranges could ever be a lie.
You'd buy a bag, or maybe two,
only if you were intrigued by the way the oranges moved
in nets like fish.
You'd rip it open, peel the skin, carefully
You were only ever careful about peeling them,
and you'd take extra care, extra caution
to make sure it was perfect,
and we'd share the orange.

When the man asked me how I felt about the end to our oranges,
I said that you had been left unpeeled,
but I was intact.
Do you like oranges?
Do they sell them in red nets where you are?