I love you too
chronic,  6 am nosebleed . 

.

I can feel it 
I can feel it circling 
and breaking off 
layers scivved away 
by the cloying event horizon
by a tired pain in my chest

the weight 
of waiting

while the slumber of the river
calls.

could i be ophelia to you? 
left sun-bloated by the bedsheets?
death drawn through 
a pneumatic syringe and layers
of sickened foam
and brine --

would that make me so divine? 

or would I be stuck
half slumped
like all the piles
of bloody rags 
littering the floor
in apartment turned sarcaphagous
turned crime scene 
turned life lesson
for the weary
the withered
the weak 

the bird-boned and shallow-breathed
the wide-eyed hopefuls 
the gifted children 
left to rot . 

left to claw and cloister 

and pray in quiet desperation 
with few precious breaths 
as the motes settle in their respective shafts 
of silent light . 

this is the third stage of grief: 
"I dont need to get better
i just need it to hurt less 

i just need to not hurt 

anymore "