On my most private of places, I wear your brief despondent intervals of sobriety.
The lovers nestled in their cold cavernous caves sicken at the coming sun.
She existed in the creases of his hands; like tiny shards of glass She filled the space.
I'm in the kitchen painting peaches with juices dripping down my chin.
This business of grief
The boy who hides won't find comfort in the silence of his head.