i stopped talking to the stain on the wall when i realized it wasn't you,

just the desire of it to be you.


the house where you were born, is standing up just by the bones of you,
i'm sure.

dad sometimes says your soul is still trapped here,
like it dug a grave and buried itself in the foundation.

i wonder how that can be --
have you wrapped the roots of the maple tree around your middle?

are you holding your breath as if the soil is water;
As if the meaning of you is still refusing to go on because there's a snorkel attached to your mouth?
Because i'm here waiting for you at the maple tree
with the ash you would call snow,

in my arms,

and you're still in some place I haven't found yet.


The stain on the wall doesn't look the same.
The place where you should be feels void,

and outside there's a storm,
it's causing the heads of the flowers you planted to bat against each other.

I wonder if you've possessed one of them,
I wonder if you're trying to **** me so I can possess one too.

I wonder if you're even here,

or if I am even here.

Sam.
Sam.
little brother?

i'm sorry.

The ground beside your grave is cold,
I've dug dirt stained nails into the earth to try and reach you,



but you never reach back.