I woke up and the rain had stopped
but my clothes were still wet
from sitting in the wash overnight.
I krept to the coffee machine with my robotic legs,
uncharged from the night before
and my body was heavy
my body was a stack of red bricks,
harpened together by a broken back.

I congealed there
on the damp grass, pressing warm blades into my skin
leaking wet into me
and it felt like blood,
it felt like misery hospital beds
a torn out needle
seeping out fragile red.

the coffee was stale,
bitter settled there in the back of my throat,
clinging on to starved muscle
I couldn't swallow
I wouldn't swallow
Your taste was still there somewhere,
nestled in my gums to relish in later.

come down from that burgundy tree
those branches won't hold you for much longer
the maple is dying,
heart rot and wounded.
your home is here,
your home is here.

I gather myself in two parts:
1 part body
1 part will
And you gather yourself from the other side:
1 part will
1 part hope.

I prayed for rain in the morning
but I only got the afterthought
I prayed for your flesh in my hands by night
but I only got your urn, cold and heavy.