the existence
of

**YOU
.

You are                                                              ­             
My ellipsis dots,                                           
                  trailing away, unspoken                     
. . .
                                                  You'll always belong
                                                                              on my horizon.

I might scoop you
from that ***,
or watch you churn,
and watch you ROT.

when I come to it.

far too young

to
be
this
**OLD

What does one do in vacant hours
When night descends its sable tapestry
And the past knocks on this window?

over
spilled milk;

DO cry
over spilled
**drank.