She lives so far away
At the other end of my world
That far she would not say
So far that it hurts my soul
When she is about to fall asleep
Here, my clock says bip bip
She greets me with a Good morning sunshine
That instantly makes me feel fine
But when it is her turn for a few hours to disappear
Into sadness I am about to fall near.

Alone as I walk, these hallowed hallways, wondering who before me has taken this same pathway to wherever , my footfalls muffled within the echoes , like the baron insides of a fallen oak , or the dripping of a wooden faucet , bip , bip, bip , amidst the breeze of these fallen echoes , like rustling leaves in an autumn gust , making a unique sound of chatter , if you start to hone your ears  you can actually hear the conversations, words uttered within these confines , that have never left , secrets cradled in time , moments lived , loves lost , heart to hearts , and confidant professions , no faces , just words , I often wonder when I catch a snippet of a dialogue past, to whom it may have belonged , and how it may have ended ,or to what it may have conjured, and as I find myself nearing the end of this hallway , I wonder just how many conversations have  amassed between these walls  , how many words continue to rebound  within this portion of time , and how many others have listened , to the echoes .....To the echoes in the hall .....

Sweetbitter kiss caressed
lips. esophagus. stomach. chest.

inaccessible 'till death.
untouchable--so close to the chest.

unable to put out fires, burns
will have to rest
where they lie smoldering, watching
eyes walk bye.

I close my I.

Carry me, now--not home
not to neverland
not over the rainbow

Just carry me softly in sweet-smelling acidic things.
--a little corrosion does a girl a world of good--
sing me songs, wolf-in-sheeps-clothes, that my mother used to

and bring me gifts on angel-dusted wings,
nothingness never before made greater feeling.

Our lives themselves strived for meaning while we strived for the reason for being
the way the great cold faceless hands created
our unyielding . . . softness
separate from and not unlike a feather
equal both in whimsical light, lack of value, disease and helplessness
great beauty, plainness, and utter insignificance

Us little things are great only to those with great imagination--
light in the clouds,
break in your fever
blip on your radar
the fast one before the flatline always seems so much shorter than it should. Shorter than they said it would.

I relax
sweet relief
sweet goodnight

we'll wake up and try this one more time.
we won't get it right-- you can't
get it right

give me this bip, this sleep, this chance.

*******, we'll still try--
to get it right sometime.