||[Feb. 12th, 2008|12:47 am]
|||||tom waits - hoist that rag||]|
one's lost everything and still an architectured city's intricacies more than the other:
spattered primaries of obviousness stunted somewhere after thumbsucking and before stockings. She's mine.
The other in those two days of her perpetual heart detonation did not stop looking at me only me, my greatest privilege to watch: How to walk through apocalypse like a kitten, lion.
Sister said she heard them behind a closed door in Summer once, brother verified. I shook and my idealistic child's imaginings of immaculate, or the milkman, fell off a high forgotten place.
My thoughts are elegant enough to have thought long out of why or unfair, but hit a skip at simplicity: she will never be in rooms.
I will never feel you in a room.
My signature grief. And past movies.
The girl's smile.
If I could choose my life: Bearing witness.
I never feel more useful.
We lost our girl.
in your boots,
on the mud,
of the grave.
The way we refuse
to be saved." - castanets