Your teeth shatter everytime you speak.
Your arms break everytime you try to hold me.
Your fingers snap everytime they meet mine.
You are cold and dead.
Finding life only in the darkest of pits.
I'll breath every ounce of air I have into those shriveled lungs of yours.
I'd do anything to see those lips move to the shape of the moon.
To watch the color of your pale skin turn blush.
I'd give anything.

I wish I could fix you.
I wish I could smooth every one of your worry wrinkles.
I wish I could tell you that everything will be ok, and mean it.

But the sadness you carry is deeper than I have ever known.

You are the only hope I have ever lost.
The only need I have always refused.
& the only soul I ever rejected.

Too much of you has withered away.

Your body has become unfamiliar to me.
Our words are only those of distance, desperately searching for conversation.

I feel as though I've never known you.
Your face is not a mothers, but a sad & broken stranger.

I just wish I could fix you.

It's as if I can feel every cell of my being illuminating.
Everything my fingers touch is electrifying.
My face aches from the corners of my lips relentlessly kissing the lobes of my ears.
Every word spilling from mouth is as dire as the need for air in my lungs.
My body is restless and weightless.
There is no euphoria I can't reach.
No amount of ecstasy I can't handle.
Complete bliss, if only for the moment.
Just as quickly as this paradise was built, even faster it disintegrates.

I refuse to delight in the things that bring me so much pain.
Though it seems to be the only consistency in this constant running scheme.
I go & it come.
I come & it stays.
You haunt my only made up fantasy of ecstasy.
If I can't delight in you, you refuse to delight in anything.
I'm so tired of you.

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?