for him: you are all the stars in the sky and all the stars that will ever be

030414/0102AM

at this moment last year
he was here

barely breathing, chest heaving
slowly, against gravity, soul
against gravity, mind
against gravity,

his eyes a constant glaze, a
mirror of her mind– a clouded
river of mingling memories

but the cloth has burst at the seams.

the wallowed skin shrinking against his
shallow bones, a mass of hunger, years of
cloth bounded over a crumpled figure
that once
not long ago was a fortitude of
strength and stone

but the cloth has burst at the seams.

her hopeless eyes crease over his paled waning crescents,
hair winter-worn,
the pride of tanned skin and dark hair
washed over by a sea of
white paint and white dye an
inconsistency of white blood dripping over
the edges of a white lie

but the cloth has burst at the seams.

the hospital walls a bright
white
the floors splayed out as a white canvas
white blinds
white sheets
white robes

but the cloth has burst at the seams.

and maybe the man in white did something wrong
somewhere
maybe youll be okay

but the cloth has burst at the seams.

these white walls have heard her
endless prayers, mutterings of
two repeated syllables–
gong gong

gong gong
gong gong
gong gong
gong gong
gong gong
gong gong

youll be okay
youll be okay
youll be okay
youll be okay
youll be okay

her eyelids draw the blinds between
her and him; her lips cut the thread between
her words and his silence

as the weight of the folding
fabricated fabric rolls out in front of them both—
her lies and his

desperate and echoing along the walls of white linen
both mouthing the last phrases in
a ballad of two languages:
of hers and of his

please
please
please
please
please

please dont go— 

but the cloth has burst at the seams.

– – –

030414/0537AM

at this moment last year
he was gone

just like that–
a call in the dark
weeps across the telephone line

grief in a dimension he had never felt
the froth on his hands matched
hers, his warmth no longer there

no longer there
no longer there

burnt in a moment
loose ends left in an urn of
broken thread
the metred rolls of thickness
worn with age

threadbare hands ground into
string no longer there

no longer there
no longer there.

he left the cloth unmeasured
he left the wood unkept
he left the scraps unsewn
he left the needles untouched

and he left
and he left
and he left

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