Abandoned Picinic Baskets

People don't wait. They endeavor to live. With or without us. Closed doors on the shadow of her casket. Love is a morgue. Drawers full of dead. The heart is an autopsy. Once you know you can't save it, all you want to know is why it's gone.

When I was younger I used to tell myself I'd learn the difference. But now I know I never will. Dead is dead. Whatever way you choose to bury it.

In panics of skin she tried to drown herself. Searching for the right ratio of drug to sex. Sure it was poison. Now knowing herself to be immune.

You can't punish lovers by ignoring them. They forget and you are left wishing you hadn't let them. You can't measure the velocity of love by secrets told, but that is how you can prove it.

So many familiar enemies. If only we could know who to kill.

You can play the wolf. Blow all those houses down. But no one's lived there for so long. How does it matter?