Caught myself playing
with fly husks by the windowsill
Trying in vain to make dead things work.
It's a pain pushing blood that's just going to
Spill.
My mouth fills with your words
but I swallow them
When there's no one else to whisper to,
Except paper-winged things
Wrapped in death on the sill.
Things could be worse
Than preaching to flies on the window,
Like when I would scream at the walls
About how they caught your ghost.
Our bedroom is haunted when I'm alone
With your thoughts, so
I might as well crack and find friends
In the bottle.
It's not too late to weave me
Into your great-escape plan,
We don't have to stay dead.
I'll take the long way or
Slip out the sixth story, because
The comforts of flying
Are the crashes shortly after
But watch me fall short
And lay down to die
At the windowsill.