Doesn’t matter which Friday, your rusty hands will pull the old flowers off his bed.
His permanent bed, because rituals are important when mind leaves you slowly.
Brown hands sustained by veins only, pull the roots of a love that survives conscience.
Aphasia is God’s creation too, xylem flows out of you.
Even if most has vanished to nowhere in particular,
the part that was buried with him is the item of mortality which strings us together.
There’s no easy way to say ‘I love you’ to your ever evaporating grandmother.
I guess the only way is now rather than later, unless now is already later,
And in that case all you’re left with is a baby with too much personality
To accept any kind of love at any kind of party.
Aphasia is God’s creation tool, xylem flows inside of you.