All lovely things will have an ending,
All lovely things will fade and die,
And youth, that's now so bravely spending,
Will beg a penny by and by.

Fine ladies soon are all forgotten,
And goldenrod is dust when dead,
The sweetest flesh and flowers are rotten
And cobwebs tent the brightest head.

Come back, true love! Sweet youth, return!-
But time goes on, and will, unheeding,
Though hands will reach, and eyes will yearn,
And the wild days set true hearts bleeding.

Come back, true love! Sweet youth, remain!-
But goldenrod and daisies wither,
And over them blows autumn rain,
They pass, they pass, and know not whither.

We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say. I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start,
wear a certain kind of dress
and just by accident,
so inconsequential you barely notice it,
your fingers graze that dress
and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper,
you see it too
and you realize how that image
is simply the extension of another image,
that your own life
is a chain of words
that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands,
and beginning to rise heavenward
in their confirmation dresses,
like white helium balloons,
the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning,
and above all that,
that's where I'm floating,
and that's what it's like
only ten times clearer,
ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?

Paths really fascinate me
Guess they always will,
Whether in a clover field
Or up a grassy hill,

Is it curiosity
Or will I ever know?
Why I am filled with wonder
As to where and how far they grow?


September 3 1955

The other day I thought about you, and by that I mean that I wasn't thinking much at all. I stare at the ceiling and count the cracks in it and fall asleep only to wake up to the sound of some imaginary rain hitting the roof once. I don't remember leaving my door cracked, but the wind pushed it wide open again. I imagine (I hope) I will find your arm behind the door, but for now it's just another ghost leaning on the door jamb. Your name is the first thing that comes up when I flip on every light in my house, trying to find the source of the noises I swear you're making, and your name is the last thing I can see before the bulbs go out. I'm tracing holes in the wall - holes I've created - and imagine those holes are on you and I am tracing their edges. I have to trace something these days, or the walls will fall from my knuckles fighting them too much, so I take a black pen and trace letters from my imagination and write these things down on paper, bearing down so hard that they begin to carve into the desk, so that not even the wood can forget about you.

I want you to come. I don't mean this in some sort of lustful way (although I feel some sort of passion) , but I mean in want you to come as in here. Here. You were here at some point in time, but your body was here and your mind was floating off into the ignite regions of space, regions I could only dream about, almost the way I dreamt about the day you'd stop looking through me as though I were some sort of ghost. Funny how you treat me like a ghost, but I feel so human when I think about my feelings for you and everything in respects to you. Over 70% of your body is water, but the rain doesn't feel as good as your hands falling onto my skin. Your hands tug on my shirt the same way you tug on my mind when my shirt is unbothered, but there is more to love than tugging, darling. And there is more to tugging then just my teeth on your bottom lip. There is more to anything if you dig deep enough, so I try to remember to dig deeper scratches into your back and hope that I might find my way to your heart. It's hard though, because I haven't even felt your ribcage yet.

11
I looked at your hands too long and started feeling sorry

12
I am death and you are grave, made to hold me when all else turns to dust

13
I was 16 the first time my mother told me God was not inside me anymore. I was 16 when I started to wonder the same myself.

14
I saw my reflection in the glass pane of my back door and started to cry like a child out of fear

15
why don't you let people touch you anymore? I bet you still remember the night you turned to ash at that strange man's touch. you've been burning ever since and you're so scared of loving again because they took everything from you, you can't even write poetry anymore for fear of sending your hands into a violent flashback. your body wants to forget the press of another, careful or catastrophic

16
the truth of the matter is your bed didn't feel empty until you believed it to be. when did you become insufficient?

17
you were so skinny; what made you hate yourself so fervently that you tried to turn your body inside out? did you think that making yourself disappear would make someone else come back?

18
the night God gave men the power to steal away souls the devil stayed at his mother's place & the seven circles of hell all drank themselves to sleep

19
there is more giggle than grave inside of you, never forget that. all the grace tucked behind your ears and hiding under your nervous fingernails is enough to make even the most monstrous shame laid upon your altar turn to dust at the very sight

20
what does death even mean when everyday you walk like you're late to your own funeral

21
every living generation of my family sat at the kitchen table tonight and tried to remember, death pulled up a chair in the corner but we all still laughed

I would shower in two hundred degree water if I thought that it would get your touch off of my skin
I would dive into the coldest ocean in the world if it would freeze my brain just enough to forget you for a few minutes
I would shred every inch of my skin if it would somehow take away the pain I feel in my heart and my head
But that's the thing...
I can't detach from your grasp
My brain wouldn't forget you in a million years
And I have to bear the pain that feels like a thousand pounds sitting on my heart
Just because you left me