and the way that you laugh, tongue on teeth
and the way that your styled like this "I am not a poet"
and the way that I know you are.
The way that you confuse me day in, day out,
and the way that I don't mind.
The way that I have showed you pen to paper,
And the way I'm trying to perplex you with these words.

I knew you would forget, just as soon as the sun would rise,
But your words, cliché and hollow, came as no surprise.
I asked but one small favor, at both break and close of day,
Just to hear you say hello, but now, hope's bled away.

you'll look nice in your grave,
pale and surrendered
to the earth,
All sins forgiven,
By the judging,
For death is sad,
And you won't know,
The faces who came,
To watch you go.
If you don't wait long,
You'll never see the sun again.
Ah,
Death is on my brain.

Tossled leaves upon a matchbox,
an acorn marks the X on the map.
You were here,
now I've arrived.
Imediatley treasuring the gold inside
And now it scrapes and scratches and sores,
at this once touched neck,
You touched before,
Like a dainty noose,
Of chestnut coloured curls.

Your hands fit
perfectly into my
skinny spaces
as if the
primary-school outline
of your palm
was drawn
just for me.