With eyes narrow from fatigue
And worries, I gaze at the
Traces of time on my bedroom
Ceiling.

Cracks and flaking paint.
Do nightmares and dreams
Leave their imprints
In wood, like silent poltergeists

Remembered; collected;
Guarded; stored?
Invisible scars on dead surfaces.
So unlike those on me

That she finds with drowzy
Fingertips in the dark,
When I visit and cannot
Sleep from the alien music

Of the Oslo City night. It
Lacks the sound of wind
In trees playing with leaves
That usually make up my

Bedtime soundtrack.
I awoke from dreaming she'd
Left me; driving away with
Some ex and not looking back.

I ran until my
Legs buckled. Ran after her.
I sure hope her poor walls
Don't remember.

A box of prescription drugs on my table.
It holds your name. Stating what is wrong with you.
Flaunting the details of where your body is
Failing.

You notice the hair on my pillow.
Shame.
Worried looks.
Anger.
I find none of it in your eyes.
You buy me razors.
"Do you need any help?" you ask.

Kisses on my bald scalp.
Beauty. Now we match even
Better.

Some of our scars join up
Like ink lines on two torn
Parts of a treasure map.

My heart asks hers:  
"You wouldn't happen to
Carry the other half of

This medallion?"
Oh, this new love between
Old souls.

We embrace the mortality
Of infatuation, and our flirtations
With Death,

Our ancient, common friend.
Live every day together like we
Did our first one,

Each one apart as if it's the last.
Yes, we'll lose each other.
But let's wait a while,

While my bad heart and your
Cells that always will carry the
Threat of relapse

Save the last,
Beautiful dance for
Each other.

Some of our
Scars line up
Perfectly.

They've taken us
This far, adventurer.
I know your legs aren't tired

Yet.

"I'd rather have you for
Two hours today than four
On Friday," she sighs with the
Immediate result of my
Wednesday afternoon plans
Jumping
Down the drain
Of their own accord, laughing.

I know it's late, but I'm
At home alone with
A couple of six-
Packs and a guitar and the
Love of my life just gave
That Old *******
Cancer the finger, so I'm

Drinking and playing and
Singing until my liver,
Fingertips and throat are
Bleeding
Since the radiation and
Chemo don't have to
Make her bleed any

More, and
I've got something to celebrate
Unlike anything I thought I
Ever would in a life that
I mistakenly thought of
As rich until
This.

I look out of my window at
Stars and a moon that
Pretend not to
Give a **** in their
Neutral shining and stuff,
And I'm less poet than lover.
I've got all night

For this evening.
It's mine, and like
All else that is: Hers.
I know she's with friends.
I know she laughs.
I hope she misses me less
Than I do her,

And just celebrates her
Beautiful new
Lily-like blossoming into
Deathlessness.
It's as alien to her
As Life to a
Newborn.

I give her the blueprints to
My Death Star, and reaching
The core of my love is as easy
As bulls-eying womp rats in
Her T-16 back home; not much
More than two metres
From my heart.

Her eyes are the exact shade of
Force that an Ilum Crystal
Powering a light sabre
Emits when ignited,
And her hands can choke a
Weak man from a hundred
Imperial Standard Yards

Away. She's Leia to my Solo,
And the Vader tattoo on the
Back of her leg
Stares at me when she tip-toes
Past me, shower fresh and
Towel-less, inviting me over
To the Dark Side

Of sci-fi, *** and rock'n roll,
And I know from the
Bottom of my everything of
Everythings that she is
Indeed the *******
Droid I've been
Looking for.

The huge bird tattoo on her  
Back burns like lazers when
Her skin gets warm,

And I, a human radiator
Favouring a sub-zero bedroom
And thin covers not to

Burn an imprint of myself upon
The sheets,
Massage heavy lotion onto her

Cringing canvas, occasionally
Kissing that phoenix rising from
The ashes of her history of

Colder lovers.