I said nothing ever increases if it stays the same.
Take the flower in the kitchen, it lacks light and fades.
I read the last word of your note as rope and got hung by it,
you said a rope is made of hair, never bear.
Now memory is what gets left behind, discarded,
so here alone the lights won’t come on, there’s no need,
and even when I eat I get this pang, this hollow,
but it’s sweet to know I’m becoming an anti-fool,
but it’s sweet to know I’m not as still as an ornament.
Listen, there’s a drunk singing, he sings your eyes home.
Sometimes I bury that, the memory of your eyes, they’re purple
and tender and often as grey as to forget, sometimes closed.
Or maybe I’ve just had my fill, you don’t know the dinners I’ve devoured,
you don’t know the world, how it sways, o we fall and cannot stand another day.