Dying

I keep on dying again...

What my heart murmurs to the night

when I think about it:

the lacy flowing hair down your back,  

tracing the the veins of foresight,

of good-intentioned agreement,

sunny dispositions wrapped into a convenient

ham sandwich.  A disjointed poem;

and no one calls at night to tell you,

"Wait...I love you."  

I might do that right now

but something in me stops me

something in me wants to see 

you reach out and melt the clouds

down the rims of the sky

so that a clear blue canvas

is all that is left of us.  

Where would we go 

if we didn't have the tender kiss of night 

to lengthen our unhappy dreams,

and why would we die

if not to be carved like headstones

and set in the ground for all to say,

"Here lies two so devoted 

as to be buried in the same place

and look! their headstones bear their name!"

Where does the moss grow now?

Under my armpits.  But moss is soft.

I feel like weeds, weeds grow there,

and every day gets harder to say goodbye

and every day its easier to look out

upon the unshorn lawn and say,

"I will cut it tomorrow."

Tomorrow I'll be dying again

and you won't know it,

because the moss under my arms

will continue to grow.  

And your leather-chapped skin

will always be a degree colder

than the warmth of my world.