cereal boxes

our city frames your beauty like a tin can flower pot and i think of you far too often while i search the snow for any signs of spring. there a more red blood cells in your body than there are stars in the milky way and you spilled your universe on a broken beer bottle behind our osborne street bar. the blood stained your cigarette and the accidental scar (just under your left ring finger) will last forever. I should try and concentrate more often and this should not be confused with thinking. do my taxes, check my bank account, buy condoms, read the mail, lock my door, turn off the stove. tell me a worry and i'll concentrate on it frequently so you feel less alone. your  sleepy grin always makes me chatty over bowls of breakfast cereal; spilling my guts like a medical student's first clumsy autopsy. i hope whoever invented mini-wheats felt loved because for fuck's sake they deserved it for making you smile every morning.    


i'm a softened agnostic with no firm belief in anything much 'after'. is this why time weighs so heavy in my pockets like a dozen grandfather clocks? but my mind is always ever so lighthearted as it lays with yours and i'm sorry i can be so headstrong. my thoughts will burn your shadow in these bed sheets like the hiroshima blast in a macabre memory of everything lovely. i will go back to them from time to time like those little white shacks built for irishmen lost at sea, stocked with crackers and water, to feed until found again.