I'm tired of people calling me "sad",
using it as an excuse to get too close...

I first saw them at the
bottom of the mountain, consulting...

I was cleaning,
you were making...

I try not to think about
that year too often...

we lived for ourselves not false gods
butterscotch throats and blackberry knees...

It's suddenly the middle of summer.
Winter has crawled out of my attic...

Trauma lives in this body;
it builds a nest with handcrafted...

I regret not killing you.
I could have done it quickly, without a trace...

You leave me in ruins
and at the end of each...

When first faced with my own mortality,
I had little fear...

There is sorrow in
knowing the best...

Who cares if I sneak
too many glances...