Show me, you say, *show me the hallway.
Show me the bedroom, show me where we used to live. That tree, over there, with the apples.
You, and then not you.
You, crossed out.
You, in the windowsill
with your hair pulled back.
Take me, I say, take me like we're already dead.
You know how this ends.
My hands, your hands, harmony.
A lit match, maybe. And death itself, there beside us.
**** me, you know how,
you've done this before, I say, panic and soap that smells a bit too much like your brother's wake.
Play me a funeral song. Impress me, and you say,
what's left to impress?
And maybe I'm not the antichrist, but it's not like you are, either.
This, our hands, you, the radio stuck on one station, crossed out.
This isn't a temporary solution.
You're singing, I say, and you just keep on, say,
this isn't a funeral,
like it's none of my business.
The radio again, playing the only way it knows how.
The mountains, over there in the distance,
spying on us.
Your hands, my hands, ******* like knots, like
this is the only way we can love. But it’s not, is it,
don't you remember the treehouse?
Three blocks down the road a man has blood on his hands, and you are the man and you aren't, all at once.
You, me, clockwork.
A bell, tolling in the distance.
i don't know how to write poetry