She’s been writing words for you, filled with leaves and stems. Carving with her solitude, but you will never hear them.
Captivate the loneliness that became a part of she, but acquire the fate you’ve trekked so far to flee.
Expect this to last through the cold winter hue, so harbor in the freedom of defeat. Let her veins keep beating to the vast over needing of all of the secrets you knew.
Stack the forgiveness into books you have written, and scribble your mind on her lips. Lay her to sleep on the bed that you keep hidden in your grandfathers shed.
Read her the words you’ve kept for the birds, and whistle them until you are dead.
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