Everyone in me is a bird I am beating all my wings

You lay, a small knuckle on my white bed; lay, that fist like a snail, small and strong at my breast. Your lips are animals; you are fed with love. At first, hunger is not wrong.

As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.

Somebody who should have been born is gone.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

The joy that isn't shared dies young.