even the keys dangling from your crooked pinky finger,
could not disguise
my fantasy of four months fading away.
as I watched myself; third person,
close the story book of your sick
power play.

i didn't have to raise my head
to know his silhouette
intruded upon my anger
my father insistent
that i am to remain relentlessly unforgiving
in attempts of reversal

but yet  he returned two days later
with my mothers severed leg

missing you ruined everything.

absence of past memory,
bitter dreams,
forcing myself to forget your underwear in my drawer,
and now i cry after i ******.

which feels pathetic.

it is a preferred letter,
or the letters themselves that form a word.
strung together in a disjointment of a sentence.
the combination to a poem,
formed by the necessary conventions,
to create a complex composition,
that
hopefully,
in some way
touches
you.

Death.
For the old,
sick,
and dying.
A token to the end of a life.
Incomprehensible.
It
Is
Reserved.

But Youth,
feeling the overwhelming desire to possess all they see,
grasp at it.
Their hands ageing in a spectacular frenzy.
Youth.
Who understand so little,
sit at the reserved table,
accompanied by frail figures.
And do not need to wait.

Summer was meant to be self-healing,
so I let the thirty-degree heat take it out of me,
like ******* through a straw