eyes closed
give me a bell
for when I am hidden underground
wood and dirt entrapping me
I can ring for you
and you will come
or how about a box of matches
so when the cold months come
I can strike each against my teeth
for a second catching a glimpse of your face in the flames
feeling the warmth from your smile
inhaling your breath from the intoxicating smoke
pack with me a guitar pick
under the flap of my right-hand pocket
so when I outline its ivory inlays
with my stiff, bony fingers
I will remember the little dance yours do
over my bear back in the early mornings
give me a ring
so my hand may once again
trace the impurities of your body in my mind
as I scratch at the unrelenting wood
which slowly rots around me
and as they lower me down
my eyes closed as a sense of formality
I rack my brain
trying to remember the last thing we talked about
we were lying in bed
late for something trivial
looking up at the off-white chipped ceiling
but all I seem to remember
is that you were laughing
now however
all I hear is ringing in my ears
and the deafening tranquility
which surrounds the darkness
