you only get three wishes and they never end up how you hope. scattered papers, blunted pencils, penknife and coil of rope, the plate upon which I cut slices of an apple for you to take and eat my heart out and devour the stitches of your body which we traced in pale make-up, smeared here and there the ruby drop that bursts when I withdraw the needle, the earthy smell of almonds that you crunched to deal with the pain in your jaw I make a note to purchase more even as I roll them together in my palm we chase it with a drink of smokey red wine skin parchment-thin and dinosaur spine. the dark clouds around your eyes are gates to falling resonances. you are as much a ghost here sometimes as in your intermittent absences. I can feel the chill movement of the sweeping scythe of time that bends all reeds in the inevitable gale that will scream and rend the final veil where the constellation of our true nature shines. what of these worlds, a tall tale constructed, listing frail words that can never be trusted even until an end's broken lines. such as once I slept surrounded by the blanket of your hair; for now I am content to know we breathe the same air.