If you were a mistake, I already told you.
If you were a stock, I’d have sold you.
If you were a poker hand, I’d fold you.
And my hands fold to fists to hold you
then I open them to beg
for whatever scraps fall my way.
If we were clothes we’d clash.
If you were a tense you’d be the past.
If you were art you’d be something Munch drew.
So my hands fold to fists to fold into you
but then I open my hands to beg
for whatever ash falls my way.
If you were my child, I’d disown you.
If your heart was an inn, you’d have no room.
If you were a rest-stop, you’d be a tomb.
And so my hands fold to fists to bury you
still your memory slips through
as a shadow slays the day’s rays.