She was a wilting flower,
Delicately fading
Into the depth of her sorrow.

Her eyes-pooled gossamer stars
Falling from constellation webs.
Bouncing on the tile before losing shape
In the atmosphere.

My soul was swallowed into
Her sorrow,
And stayed there.

And when I held her,
It was like trying to hold on to refracting light.

it was a bottle or two,
downed, you know,

by this grave, grave "poetic hen."

birthing eggs of nothing,

words that'll scroll up in a thousand screens

like yours, like mine,

we share, you and I,
a great,
a very great,
nothing.

I sit here drunk,
think: no one is here.

but I'm here,
and all of their teachings, all of a sudden
all of their words,
the comfort of old friends that I don't have anymore,

My heart keeps them.
This treasure,
beautiful treasure, of mine.

I'm lonely,
but I'm not.

I love you, I miss you.

No one is alive.

And when you wake up to a scream,
Forget it.
It's me, making you, after making me.

Choke on blood.

My opinion is invalid,
Declined like your debit card.

Your opinion is biased by
Having never been loved
Or listened to in youth.

You're not my problem,
Do not think I won't stab you
In the front too.