if you haven't figuratively died a few thousand times
are you really living?
a door slams shut.
she waits for him to knock and
he's outside waiting for her to open up.
the door
remains closed.
pieces & parts,
it's all in the art of loving you
But is he as deliberate about you
as he is with his words?
Losing bits of sense like the
paintbrushes that lose
bits of paint with every unavoidable drip;
was it loving you or was it keeping
old bus tickets that killed me?
And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,
**can we just love one another & still survive?