Every love brings another blossom but they forget to mention
that flowers fall off before fruit forms.
ripened, low hanging yield become words
plucked from the tips of leaden heavy branches and
rolled about on a page as though their sticky juice
marks my demons.
Sometimes now I feel as though there's noone on the other side of the music,
not anymore;
Reason enough to stop breathing, in my humble but oft incorrect opinion
(if an opinion can even be wrong)
and maybe I'm the cancer
stuck to your skin and leeching from your bones and
making your jaw crumble with molded decay.
Maybe it was me all along.