“In Which We Wait for Something to Occur that Will Not”

Waiting is a silence and an anticipation

that slices my paper-skin;

a face that sees me inside.

Crossing lovers bend in unison,

curling upwards into nothing.

Nothing changes that changes me;

I stay the same while you are leaving,

leaving life for something better,

but I didn’t think there was something better than

you.

--

Ten fountain pens and just enough ink to

drown in.

Flooding, flooding, soon we’ll be dying,

inky lungs screaming for the life that is leaving.

You’re always leaving and I’m always waiting,

pen in my hand, writing your funeral rites,

a slow song of loving, for forever and forever,

until you are buried, and then you’re just dead.

And what’s wrong with that?

It happens

to soldiers and poets.

The pen is still mightier than the sword,

but I doubt it will keep you alive.