It's the very little things give us hope:
I notice that my spare set of door keys
have returned to me, no longer see them
yours anymore, C - a year and three months
for that, stuck in my tower of poor ghosts.
You skipped like a honey thief with your jars
and these wild bees would sting your lips and tongue
till some kind, provident Samaritan,
with ball pen tube and tracheostomy
would save your life, deterring you from such
stolen. solitary, fond moments,
if you still have them, jerk your mind to them -
but I've given up raging, cookies break
the way they do, and, if it pleases you,
remember the "best it could ever be"
and that you gave up on it and cut me.
