You languish in angst that is full of needy sores.
Those blue viles come straight from heaven to send you to hell.
It's the only respite from everything
I was;
Everything I can't.
This language has the odor of death.
This stamp on my heart is dried,
Broken,
Dead.

A river runs from my heart to yours.
They are now separated by crooked ways;
They go this way and that.
Still though, we occasionally meet at the place where death meets our tattered hearts.

July is the season for lovers unwilling to know everything about the stars.
October hides it's own language too.
Listen for the secrets of August.

Anne Sexton knew what death really is and was and will always be.
It is not an escape.
It is not rest.
It is everything left unfaid.

"I still love you."

That's my truth.