Soft speak
from quiet lips.
Mirroring
my fingerprints.
Knees bruised
from when you fell,
and I swore I’d catch you.
Will I catch you?
You tell me.
The trees
extend a hand
to help you up again.
And now we
flip through play books,
bite the fish hook,
lead the lives of love at first look,
only to starve in the end.
“It’s all your fault,”
you tell me,
from a far off sea
where you won’t hear this
melody.
You took yourself from me,
and now I drift among your sea.
I did not know I should be afraid.
But my grave has grown so cold and
blue without your rose.
And when I fall to hell,
will you catch me?
You tell me.

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