A Sentimentalist's joy poem

(For you)


While writing for you last month

I cremated my self on to several empty

sheets of paper. This week I hung them from

a wire in the backyard and they floated as if

they were cheap paper cups, I had always drunk my

whiskey in. I hit them with fingers very

gently and the sky was an ash

grey canopy the entire week is what took me to realize

you have confiscated my senses and

the key to a  perfect metaphor.

Stairs, of wood, each, one hundred and fourteen

years old became silent in time once you, stepped

in. It was as if you owned the very place.