Sitting

A starched pressed shirt
It's black, buttoned up to your neck
You mourn the loss of the things that you can't get back
Make sure the lighting is right in the frame by the box
Your hair is tangled and taped up in archetypical locks

And you mourn the loss of your equivocal self
You're resting past refrains of hope you get well

You shred the cards
You hum melodies

Of songs that you'd heard before
The familiar lines of forgotten words
Of dying young, your brother's songs
Caesura, vertigo, and counting wrong
But this doesn't feel like falling
No, this doesn't feel like falling
Until you're face up in a smaller bed
Surrounded by friends that you've never met
Who talk about food and the places you've been
They ask have you found god
Have you seen him
I'm sure

He will love the stories you tell
You're resting past refrains of hope you get well

You shred the cards
You hum melodies