Published: November 19, 2009

In this life, we wear rain
And pray to brew the courage that he has,
She has.

Fragile bones in a sack over my shoulder,
I attend your funeral.
You’re dead to me.

O Fallen, how I wish it weren’t so,
But I still cry myself to sleep to the
Sinister whispers.

Your lungs are no longer my lungs but they still are.

What a concoction in me,
To make me speak so freely,
To sing of both woes and ecstasy.

To tie the noose,
To cut it loose.

I have you, still tangled and still trapped
In this copse, your fingers running through
My baggage and yours.

Snip.  Snip, cut.
Slash, clip.

You expect me to wear black,
I’m sure.
I’m sure you’re not the only
One, I’m sure.
Two glances, one look, one escape, eight
Eyes to be gouged out in unease.

Snip.  Snip, cut.
Slash, clip.

Two doors, a bag of tea, and the number four.
A stupid girl, a stupid boy, and forgotten lore.

These vines, these veins, these eyes, my hair.
You.  Ghost.

Snip.  Snip, cut.
Slash, clip.