An angel
wrapped in gauze.
Lying still
on coarse,
unmoved sheets.

Soft,
tender skin
pulled tight
over blood
and bone
by taut stitches
pierced through
the wreckage.
My angel.

Surrounded
by colour,
bright flowers
that fill the room
with a sweet odour
as they die.
I tell myself
that I can't
smell her too.

The sun
streaming in
through the window
is too hot,
but she shivers.
Now and then.
Her eyes,
so bright
when she looks
at me.

I touch her hair,
and whisper
in her ear.

An angel
wrapped in gauze
prays to a god
she's never seen.

I hold her hand,
long after she's let go.

Here, In the brightening forest,
only the fleeting stars can see me

The newborn air I breathe
bathes me in safety and I

Bloom, forget, and
ebb into meditation.

oh look
a deer;

maybe if i'm quiet

I often wonder how people write decent love poems
For my attempts I’d classify as
mediocre.
How do write about your eyes?
The way they avert my face
And sparkle in another’s direction
That particular pain is hard to express
But for somebody as rejected as I am,
It should be simple
To moan about hands I will never hold
And if I manage
To ***** those lines out in ink
There will always be someone
To reassure me that love is out there
But how can I believe that
When I have taken myself apart
Brick by boring brick
Just to recreate myself as somebody even worse?
Now tell me,
How does one write about that?

Don't sugarcoat anything
Unless you want pests

Sometimes I wish
I was a seashell on the beach
That you would pick up
And keep forever.