Do you remember me?
I was the child that haunted your sleep.
Golden stopwatch times the seasons flown by.
You were the face that resembled a grave
sitting so lonesome, so cold in the dark.
We sat like angels in a burning home,
deprived of breath in the thickening smoke.

Where are the pictures on the mantel?
Those children are dead and gone,
grown to pessimists and cynics in a deafening world.
Where are you portraits, once on the walls?
They float down the river, the glass
pressed face down on the current,
a raft to let the rodents cross to Hell.

The lightbulbs burned out and the kitchen is frozen in wintry cold
and the strangers walk past and deny the shadows of history.

I walked into the house and counted what's left of your bones.

The bed and the carpet are singed from the cigarettes,
windows open to stare at the sea,
and let in the rusty demons of my dreams.
There was life and love under your sheets,
dressed in fine silks and drying concrete.
We were so bright and delicious,
with heads to the sky and our backs against the wall.

And I walked into your house and counted what's left of your bones.
In the dark, we sat weeping as innocent flies on the wall.

You told me I'd only live once, but I've proven you wrong
as a mask upon skin that rots in the wind.
The demons of tears on this pillowcase
saved me from feeling that you'd be worth anything
more than a mother of fear, can't you hear me whisper the past
for the kids of despair, we've walked out the door.

I walked into your house and counted what's left of your bones.
I stare into my room, wonder how I knew it as 'home.'

Do you remember me?
I was the child that haunted your sleep.