I'm beat.

Yeah, I'm beat. I'm beaten like the afghan rug my mother clung to for one too many years. I'm beat, beaten down to a pulp like the paper we'll print this poem upon later. I'm beat, dog tired, exhausted, my eyelids taking to beat off of one another ever slower, slower still. I'm beat, too beat for the zoo today I hope you understand. I'm beat, I fold, I muck the cards; I didn't have it in me. I'm disarmed. I'm beat, closed up like morning glory, just waiting to gather the rain. I'm beat. I'm the bareback catalyst of cadence made up of your rapping on taut skin. Oh I'm beat. I'm beatitude, blessed are those who make prose in this garden. I'm beat worse than Kerouac, than Cassady, than Bill Lee, than him... Ginsberg in the kitchen beating eggs into his gin. I am beat.

Cold no more.

I wanna climb into the well of our conversations and live a day inside our past. I'll probably try my hand at hibernation, but I'm too young for it to last. I'm still as naive as when you left me kiddo, still as gullible as before. But I'm too strong now love to let go, oh no! I made believe but now I'm sure.

I built an ocean in your honour honey. I built a ship to sail those seas. I built a dream for us to share here sweetie, so climb aboard, just come with me. I worked my fingers to the bones here kiddo. I worked my fingers down to none. Now I can't hold your hand like I want to, oh no! Now I can't draw you into toward my love.

I'm moving the mountains of our broken records. I'm gonna move them underground. I know your verses; I know what I heard though I tried to ignore the sound. It doesn't matter that I rerouted these rivers to lead me back to your front door. It doesn't matter that you still make me shiver, because I won't be cold no more.

Precious blood.

Your precious blood coursing through your precious veins, and your bones and the skin I'm sure is wrapped around them. If only I could be sure that you exist beyond the fairy tale, beyond the forest, beyond the mist. I insist on entertaining the idea that you're breathing somewhere out there because if you're a figment of my imagination then someone's not playing fair. Beyond a window, before a door, you're sitting cross legged on your bedroom floor or that's how I picture you; that's perfect. I suspect in your chest is a heart left undressed with care, with grace, with something. Now at night I can't sleep. I can't muster a dream so I'm sitting here quietly writing. But you've counted your sheep and moved onto catching your z's and it makes my own bed seem inviting. So goodnight broken verse; goodnight moon, and goodnight girl... I can't wait to meet you.