we're living in a den of thieves
rummaging for answers in the pages
the flowers they gave me were rotten
but still i refused to throw them out
the bulbs never even opened quite fully
so i waited instead
the things i have loved i'm allowed to keep
i'll never know if i go to sleep
i'm taking a knife to the books that i own
i'm chopping and chopping and boiling
soup from stones
and somedays aren't yours at all
they come and go as if there someone else's days
they come and leave you behind someone else's face
and it's harsher than yours
colder than yours
they come in and quiet, sweep up and than they leave

we don't hear a single floorboard creek


i've gone away
don't call me, don't write

i'm not really here