There are still clothes I cannot bring myself to sort,
Still papers lying, crumbling, crumpling their worth -
My life is a mess since you hit me out of kilter
And I can't pick myself up, let alone my belongings;
I can't pick up, get up, grow up, let alone filter
What I need and what I don't, as in my longings
I asked for you - I should have asked to long for breath;
Perhaps I'm just enduring cramp now, in this little death
Of mine - Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow with a fresh head,
Maybe I'll remember my worth, and not with dread
That I am worth so little to you
Who was just one of a few
One of a few you passed by and left a wake,
Awake. How could you know, sweet rake?
How could I know? Disease can often touch us longer
Than we think; its hold, though weakened, is still stronger.