Would you sit beside me when I’m buried alone?
Without art - I have not a living, without pain - I am void of art, I have love with none to give to - atrophying each time left vacant, by someone new. I yearn to live enough to make - poetry and art that’s left engraved, on hearts of lovers that didn’t recover - in fragments of the broken, sewing them together, on the pages of tear stained unsent letters - in the earth, the sky, the atmosphere.