These memories are choking me,
And I'm struggling for air...
I count his footsteps
to my dismay...
I've splattered scraps of metaphors
and strings of heartache...
Band on table, glistening offers hope,
eyes cannot register any promise...
An itch begins inadvertently
as a scar dries up in this shallow sea...
"Mommy, what is to die?"
"To die is to go away"...
The birds once sung in harmony,
lying in a field of flowerbeds where we were...
Now i don't know what to do
when i'm here, your not...
There's something about your air
that makes my soul cling to you...
In February,
there is tenderness in the air...
I've been collecting things
lately, time, flat tummies, belly piercings...
I know your kind...
The socially inept...