not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Friday, December 30, 2011


as your body is gone from me, my voice grows smaller. 
i have layers upon me like the matted hair of a cat
and in all my bodily being there is but one small resident of a mouse. 
its heart beats so fast i am afraid of it like a thumbprint. 
how easily it might be eclipsed. 
i push it back underneath the table out of harm's way
where it manages to stay alive, warm like an earlobe,
waiting for your return.