two poems

seemingly related

it's 3 am
and i think i'm
braiding
the loose ends
of the universe
with my calloused
finger tips
and i think it's my
special skill
the one know one knows
but me
and probably
you
i'm working like
a chinese spinstress
and i've spun
a cocoon
made with just enough
room
for the two of us
just in case you
change your mind
about that whole
entropy thing

i'm writing this
with my eyes
half open and
my skull half
broken and
full of flowers-
because i never
let go of the ones
i brought to your
mother's funeral
where you read
the poem that you
wrote for her
not about death
or dying
but longing;
and i hate your mom
for fucking taking
those pills, i hate
myself for puking
during the
burial-
because
death
upsets
me
and i'm
addressing more
than one issue
but both have something
to do with the fact
that i'm selfish and
i forgot
your birthday,
happy birthday
i miss you