Saturday, October 11, 2014

happy anniversary

Its been two years, from friend hand wrote vows cause printers can break, to songs we didn't know cause sometimes a friend can't show. We paid a stranger and it made do; we made friends with the mayor and he cried too. But that was before. Before now. Now that our relationship has visiting hours and an access code. Date night tube feeding under romantic fluorescent light, candles not allowed. I sleep in a chair and you in bed but our fingers still hook and touch, so its almost like the space isn't there. Two years, that's the cotton gift, right? Well, I brought none. They got you well stocked. With the white sheets, the sterile blankets, and the fleece restraints. I breathe you. Everything breathes you. It's you. Always you. Cotton just can't say any of that but I guess with the ventilator, you can't say anything either.

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

and you're not even happy you're not here

I'm wearing a dress
It is a little too tight
But it used to be yours
So constriction feels like a hug.
The surgery is scheduled five hours
The lunar eclipse this morning
It only took one.

I'm wearing his wedding band
And your dress
And I'm mad, I'm sad
I'm a million things it seems
Cause outside of my world
There are husbands and wives who get to fight
Carry on planning their lives

But I'm trapped
Here, where,
Everyone is sucked into a screen
Like none of us know what we are doing here.
Here I am, Tight dress, wedding band, hours on end
And you don't even know you're lucky you're not.