the bed is too cold beneath you
drugged up on dreams that fade too quickly
and your bones ache of a hollowness felt
even in the tired rooms of a timebomb heart
maybe you visit her too often
a girl who died alone
buried where there is sun and space and stone at her head
and maybe you visit her too early
in the pale and deathly tones of the morning
singing aubades for her slumber
she holds a gun to your head when you sleep
the question slips off as easy as the bullet
when you say yes
and wake to the silence of your heartbeat
