Hold my hand, we're going on a ride. It might not be pretty, but maybe, just maybe it'll be worth it.
My friends seem to wonder when I'll quit smoking, my lover the same. They worry over my longevity as if I wish to stick around longer than necessary.
By Bee Jay8 months ago in Poets
Death and I dance together when the nights are a little too dark. We sometimes reminisce over the moments where I had fought the long, swinging end since childhood. She whispers of a kid who loved the trees anyway, reminds me of how I had purposely refused to learn knots for the simple relief of never relying on those muscled memories.
Pull aside the curtain and bring these aching bones into the light, let us use this wasted body to count our disappointments aloud.
