Stripes and frays
Been worn for days
It's threads know our
every love
The zippers worn
The seams are torn
It's seen more than
stars above
Though sometimes cold
Gets through the holes
It will always keep
us warm
It's knows the weight
Of our lemniscate
It's knows our
every form

The sweaters worn
The sweaters torn
But it's completely
irreplaceable
We'll keep it with us
For years
On end
It has a heart
Of it's own

She goes to lay down
To try and give up
Tries to let go
But it holds on

She sees the mirror
But inside's not her
It's someone from tomorrow
Cause she's only today

She's heavy-hearted
But feeling empty
A raging furnace
Made of paper

She's got a life-vest
For the first train
Draws a quick bath
To get her first crutch

She's got her emotions
Stored in her right leg
Lets them all out
After the locks on

She's heading home now
On the sidewalk
Laying longways
In the stars above

Doors will creak, and floorboards crack,
Your feet soft kisses on the wood
In this house, a terminal lies with
No one,
Going anywhere.
I see a flutter, of your ghost
Subtle memories of you,
Are what I dream of when I sleep
Not simply
A life without you.
Ruined if so
Today, though, is mine.

Ours.

Let out to the day,
after years in the dark;
After seconds apart.
Soft rays of sunshine
gentle and warm; Face
pressed against mine by
the cheeks. Entangling
wind blowing in and
around my body;
Arms wrapped around
squeezing tight. Tumbling
brown winter branches
curled and brown; Hair
smooth, flowing down
over shoulders. Fruit
dripping with sugary
sweetness; Lips pressed
to mine that taste
like the sun.
Beautiful; Beautiful.

Living inside a breaking
Body I'm aching with maladies
Not well at ease but I'm okay
Still making melodies;
The drugs they ease but they don't
Cure, I won't be taken hostage
In caustic flesh and cracking bones
My own body is the carnage.

But I'm not afraid of death,
No, it's -- it's something else instead.
What I dread isn't losing life
It's who I'll miss when I'm dead;
When I'm lying there she will  
Be too but neither of us morose --
I'm maybe gross but not quite gone
Her love's the only dose
   I'll need

I'll say Farewell to Arms -- but --
I can't quite say Farewell to You --
My true goodbyes were tied to stone
I've thrown deep in skies of blue

I realize as I depart
Her part's so sweetly auspicious --
But I'm the only one to know
I grow soft secrets surreptitious.
   and --
The Reaper cracks a smile
All the while his autopsy;
He sees my life through his lens,
Carrying me off into
   **Eternity

I love it, the magic.
How the words, the ******* words --
have a rhythm of their own.
It's like the syllables, have dots and stems;
the punctuation, a rest marker. Beats
and sounds and music but not
quite music. 'Cause if it was music
it wouldn't be called a poem.

It's why I write. Her, yes. But the Words?
Oh the words. Just pause, for every comma.
Stop, for every period. Read it. Hear it
and let it breathe in your ear like
I let Her do. It doesn't always have to
be raw emotion.
Sometimes. Just -- sometimes.
It's enough to let the words,
be all the subject,
we ever need.