I need to show you, the way that
you are slowly
hammering, pounding, crumbling me
into ashes.
That I know will only hopelessly scatter behind you
as you leave again.

Write you a book,
with as many pages as days,
that you have imprinted my dreams.

Frame every single photo in my heart,
which you have seen through your eyes.

Extract this turmoil,
which hurls in your blackened head.
And then fold it neatly by my bedside,
unfold each crease gently
and feed it pure, back into you.