Young Writers Society

slip a cough drop between your lips

laugh and spew your lyrics

I wait by your side and gather

your hand in mine

What can you say?

I wait for a whisper

for a sun-bleached kiss

you pucker your lips

life has soured your heart and

your mind is bitter

gilded with narcissism

The corridor is cold

moss trodden on by rats

the wind cackles in our ears

says your skin is stretched

over a waning skeleton

I whimper

if I lose my head I lose my spine

and you crumple from the pain

the days are concluding

the illness is at its peak

I want to weep but I scold you instead

you must not fall on your knees

our roses have wilted

I cannot let you wilt with them

I may be strict but I am strong

lines blur into circles

the moon has hidden its ashen tears

I reach out to broaden your hope

to pluck at the stars

and tie them to your collar

the rope was thickly spiraled

the smell was one of rancid beauty

together we hold hands

falling from the golden boughs

of white powdered pine trees

spring is stale in the air

the clouds disintegrate

amber honey slurs our memories

the lump in your side

spreading infecting killing

the pale trodden hallways

robotic barbie dolls and

frankenstein and dracula and

gray whirring and stirring and waiting

for you to close your eyes

a steady drip

tube in your nose

and a straw in your arm

the room is quiet

the rug runs wet with saltwater

I wait beside you catching

your breaths

your random birds flying

from your delusional sunset

greeting me with cracks and burns

the world erupts with fire

beeping whirring stirring

you cry my name

I am here, I am there

I am every part of you

wait for me to crystallize

and by no doubt I will become

a stalagmite

I will stand by your bed

and keep my eyes locked on yours

until the beeping stops

the whirring halts

and static fills my ears

your breath deflates

I gingerly close your eyelids

I do not crystallize but instead

spill gemstones from my eyes

I am a woman who once made

a promise to her lover

that she would not leave his side

through journey grief or joy

my best friend is a gravestone

my child is a blade of grass

our wilted rose

its petals strewn

across the wind-blown lawn

my gaze is blank

I read the engraved words

a loving husband

an adored son

and the rain seeps

between the letters

my hair is limp

face unadorned

with lipstick powder gloss

my nails are black

so too have grown my thoughts

and the groundskeeper

bids me good morning

as he rearranges the roses

on the gravestone to

my left