"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're things which get you. All you can do is go where they can find you" – A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
I cannot know the hell that dragged itself through you,
and drudged up all your demons.
Hanged upon a forehead cleaved from saddening thoughts –
that drank with ghosts as friends.
Now do not cry tears for death,
as death does not for you.
Let these aches sink upon my arms,
lighter in the company of a sinner like me.
Dearest of my life –
that I could wish upon all but you the misery,
that commandeered a heart as fond I am of yours.
So absolute is your own little death.