hmmm, your eyes have faded
leaving only open scars
and the flowers have died in the night.
you are a pity, aren't you?
you act a lot like music, you know
noise that shakes bones
even in the confines of flesh.
these are uncomfortable decibels
i am unfamiliar with.
to me you are things.
pieces of fiction fragmented
and taped together on a wall;
you are a friend i don't know
the places i no longer like to visit.
there are many things i would do for you
i would cut at the creases
in my fingers,
and bleed upon glass.
hang myself from blue cotton
until i fall off the tapestry
of the world; unthreaded.
i would become
a flurry of snow particles
the sun across the earth's back
if you asked me to weather you.
i am something to pity, probably.
there is a teapot that sits in the grass
and in evening storms
the water spills over the rim;
i pull metaphors from the mouth
and think things you will never ask about.
because why would you?
it seems my horsehair strings are broken,
but still a sound comes out
hold on hold on
you can be more.
oh and i'm sorry,
i didn't water the flowers sooner-
they are skeletons.