there is nothing adequate
about typing at a
machine, alone
in the witching hour, writing
about the ways
i wish for you

it will not last
will not last
all heartbreak
is reduced
to triviality by time

but what can i do?
when the wound weeps
when your scent lingers
in the letters you wrote me
when the spring
forcing the dogwoods to bloom
arrives like a
freight train
what can i do
but trace the veins
trailing to my wrist
and follow that bloody map
wherever it may
take me
I really liked the idea behind the piece and the simple, poignant language. That being said, I felt like you strayed into cliche a couple times and I think you could come up with original phrases that would suit the theme of this piece a lot better. "when your scent lingers" and "trace the veins trailing to my wrist" are really the only two that I would suggest you change but read this over again and try to revise it in a way that gives you your own voice.


"Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time."