You Can't Even Clink

 

 

your matching glasses up to mine in the fake air anymore, or click

your widening fingernails against the hard bed railings in

protest of anything you might be feeling in the floating silt-like

 

depths of your jagged nerves, but I swear I can

still hear you breathing in and out from your

saved paper thin sentence structures, watch you thinking in the tedious

 

minute choices you make for every single word laid up or pushed

down into the ground . They say you very much liked to play

for hours in the sunshine with your favorite flowers at hand

 

and among any familiar visiting bees, but as soon as another

person popped into the scene you were incredibly gone, bolted and glued

behind shut doors quicker than a wind through a

 

light piece of blown around dash of red hair. That hair haunts me to this day.

I've often looked into those flattened out black eyes of yours, wondering

about the photographed world they lived in. I was told

 

you had many poems from many admirers stuck all

around the rooms like pinned butterflies. None of these

wings would lift you far enough away from the

 

carbon monoxide fumes to set you free from the

folly of your own unique fact. Everything settles. The

next stirring may bring us closer to some peace

 

with understanding, if we let it, if we allow

it into the secret places once more. Or the forest may just

decide for us where to bury the lost evidence box and be done with it, once and for all.