-

-

We tread in silence, wreaths upon
Gravestones, where you lie amongst
Flowers unpicked, at rest.

and all you've left is
another layer to dry,
blue over my heart.

deleted

she reaches for the
buds of
early October

and the night,
     well-worn
by comet-trails and matchstick
                                         wishes,

aches,
  ablaze.

I am not a poet.
Who are you to call me one
When all I do is cram out As and
Words that don't mean a thing,
Pretentiousness masked as literature,
Romanticized depression in monochrome.

you uttered my name
once, months ago, a question
I left unanswered.

and I am so,
so,
sorry for the terrible poesy. The
hum
of creating hasn't quite
left me yet, though it may be in-
evitable.

the first tragedy:
in two months you'll be gone -
there's really not much point in staying.