If it smells dead, it probably is
Rot makes no mistakes
I sit and spin my wheels and it takes
Everything inside of me
To rid myself of her stink
Seventeen years of parental nurture
Two weeks of preying in search for;
Only six minutes of squeezing to be
Left only to be filth again
Passed over and forgotten
Are my words too heavy for your song?
Sing loudly so I can hear you
Again, my pale skinned love
As I hover above and sweat into your mouth
Quiet swan song sung, splash of piss all too loud
Calm I grow as from you, I take my cue
Does my breath not fog glass as much as yours?
If I crawl away now, I won't appear to move.
Silently shaking and praying in search for
Something less living, something less grand
Bedside stories told to you once at night
A lone little light plugged in low by your closet
You feared the wrong monsters, and I felt that fright
It clung to the air; you were my first as by my hand.
But my hand pulls away now--
My fingers hardwired, pulling, reaching
For something warm to touch
And you were warm once, too
"Many Conversations at Once" series
collaborative poem, stanza trading