You speak your life in poetry.
Your heart broke like ice on the tin roof,
wide and running, over metal, overhead.
Then it fell, on a mission,
over the edges.
You cried up a lonely midnight,
infinite black and starless depth.
As vast as the grief you've promised yourself
until the day of your death.
I could sink my fingers
into a red seeping pain,
as visible as the breaths
that you struggle to take.
But I only want to help.
Always. Only. Better. For you, baby.
I'll gather you up sweet
with those 'things that were done.'
Call them lessons,
though I wish I could wish them away.
And I'll take care of you tenderly, my poet
Always. Only. Better. For you.