I am drying and damp and deep in trying
to hold your fist instead of your hand.
You pull me closer to get far apart.
I have bled words and language
for your unhappiness and my fears
and now your gone with all my tears.

Your ghost is my lover
falling after your grave and smiling.
I am a field of war and trying is my enemy
covered in soot and grey ash.

My war without purpose and yet I stay.
To walk away and take with the town,
and a thousand warriors lay their arms down.

The jazz begins.
Sitting on leather, my glass is full –
the beast of simple pleasure.

Dwelling on struggle,
Still and sitting and sipping and trying
to take apart my heart
and sharpen its springs;
I’m sprung.
Noticing now I end, where I have begun.