You do to me what winter does to garden geraniums.
Frost does not exist on purpose.
It does not intend to puncture cell walls.
It just is. As do I. As do you.

You do to me what oxycontin does to the heart.
Oh, my zenith of euphoria, the unbearable absence of your pleasure
haunts me until nothing remains to be haunted.
You caress me raw with your fingertips.
Your warmth burns hot as ice on my soul.

You do to me what chefs do to onions.
What farmland does to streams.
What sunshine does to skin.
What wealth does to man.
What maggots do to rotting wounds.

You do to me what pictures do to moments.
You do to me what rats in glue traps do to themselves.

Wipe these tears away from my cheek.
The softness from your hands make me wither.
I know they have been on someone else.
But the touch of them is all I want right now.

these clothes i wear
placed upon my intrepid
yet crumbling mortal form.

from friend.
from family.

gift me more weight.
gift me more armor.

those that believe in me,
are, and is, this softness in my robe;
each fiber, to caress my heart.

to carry me to the clouds.