I often talk to myself,
In the hope that
One day
I will come to my senses.

End
His heart,
Gracefully
Beating,
Hastily
Retreating.
She laughs.
And I stare.
Hello, mourning.

Spinning
Around
and
Around.
Over
and
Over
and
Over
and
Over
Again.
"Heaven's
Waiting­
for
Her,"
He
Said.
It will happen
Again.
He told me that,
yesterday.
It's
Reoccuring.

I often hope
That your tenderness
Means more
Than just an action
Borne of your compassion.
Sometimes you smile
At me



And I forgot
What I was going to say
Next.