I run myself empty
out of breath
to stop on doctor's orders
he is risen
have I lost him?
not wanting to grow up
through the city to the cemetery
coughing possibility
a fairtyale psychosis
or maybe just regret
reaching for absurdity
disowning fact like innocence
I wash my hands
not wanting tomorrow / the headlines / thoughts I author
waking to face them anyway
'we miss you' waits for rain on marble
like the end of summer when it comes
unwanted with the rest
betrayed
she is weeping on the floor in the dust
cradling another doll
can you hear her pleading change away
a little longer?
how much difference can a little make?
the door is still ajar
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