The words evaporate
into an sunken exhale;
there is no phrase,
no uttering, that could bring
consolation.

The cars drive past my eyes,
I could run
                       between them
                                                   and
stop.

You're fading faster
than the light in the sky.

The urge is building,
there are knives in my pocket,
razors behind my desk.

It will ache in the morning,
as my perfume slaps my wrists.

Long-sleeve season now,
nobody will know;
I'll never know.

But he'll turn me over
and see the pain fresh,
on my skin and blistering.

It could pull me away from here.

It could drown me.

Descend upon the clouds,
moth-eaten words,
withered and frail
and at once, form the dust
that is the star of our mourning
and choke within the grasp
of the pale night.

And so, adieu.

Would you blame me
for cutting myself open
if you knew? I didn't ask
for the corpses to bear relation
or for the words to fall close
to home. I didn't turn the waves on,
or pull his clothes off, or stick
the ******* under his nose.
So excuse me for a moment,
it's a quarter inch past the radial artery
and I've got stitches to pull.
Don't bother with the lights,
I'm used to working in the dark.

We didn't know your favourite song,
so we chose one from your home town.
A quiet hymn about the joy of God;
I'm sure you would have frowned
behind the outward smile,
as you looked down from above
to bear witness to the solemn mourning.

I saved you a spot by the fire.
Hold my hand for a while,
if only to watch time pass.
I just want your footsteps to
meet the door.

Please, come home.

I'm not sure what I'm holding on to,
I can't see past my eyes,
Not anymore,
There's no taste,
When the senses meet my tongue