all this time, my tongue,
was his heart writing grief,
prose and poetry unsung,
his spirit showing me relief
he leaves me with a weight of unknowing,
that is filled with my pastime,
relics of his past life,
the reminder of the white dress,
that death awaits me in.
elixir of friction,
concoctions of hurt he could not pronounce,
I don’t grieve,
because the shrills would deafen her,
would slay me,
rupture the lips they are meant to pass from,
and hold the world in contempt,
of the court of love.
instead, he finds me,
in pangs of writers blocks,
in moments filled with an orchestra rattle,
there he is,
the brown moth of white noise.
it doesn’t bother me,
that you see only fleshen mass,
this cavity is large for a reason,
but did you ever ask yourself,
i wonder how much it can hold,
what it can hold, or who it’s held?