"i weep to think of all the artists
who go to bed unloved."
i say to which you reply:
"but i love you."
and i may be a maker of art,
but i look to your face and think
you must be a maker of graves.
so i sleep easy knowing
if i never wake,
you'd bury me in your backyard,
and in stone, you'd carve my name.
for i love you, i lay myself on your chest,
and wrap myself within you
and i can know for certain
you are digging a whole six feet under,
where you'll lay my bones to rest
