The memory of you is a wounded bird.

It beats its wings, struggling against the woven cage of my heart.

You were a cloud that covered the moon.

When you left I saw how bright the night could truly be.

Every now and again, I feel my bones shift towards you.

Likes a compass desperate to point home.

I had a cool dream last night, but can't remember it.

I think death will be like that.

the way to a man's heart was his stomach

the sternum is much harder to pierce

When that velvet curtain falls on our time together, I won't mourn the memories.

I'll bow my head as the audience cheers, a performance imprinted in their memory.

This poem is as insignificant as you.

In the end, it will be forgotten.

Oh my little dove, pour out, scream, cry,

But why would you be so certain you deserve to die?

Being a sage is more work than reward.

But good Lord, being stupid is worse.