Apparently,
when someone else cleans your desk
they put your stuff in strange places
making it impossible to find anything.
   That sounds nice.
I need someone
to do that with
the part of me
that knows
   I'm going to die.
I'd be ok
not finding that
for a while.

She reads him
wanting to absorb
all that he is,
feeling his words
almost touch her skin

She reads him
his words, upon her parted,
wet lips
His pain, a taste, familiar,
left upon her tongue

She reads him
savouring the flavour
she is lost in him forever
****** by his poetry

Never a rose without thorns
You broke my heart
And left me scorned

The muse died
I put a stake through her heart
Put her in the ground

She will no longer
**** away my sleep
Trade my time for trinkets of rhyme

I left her
In an unmarked grave
So soon to be forgotten

She will no longer
Rise at first moon
To haunt my memories

Like a simple twist of fate
She looked astonished
The first blow upon the stake

I dust off my hands
And lay my shovel down
I'm going home

I will lay down
And go back to sleep
all within my ease

But before I do
I'll throw another poem
Upon the towering stack