at the foot of your bed,
the springs around my heart
giving way, creaking.
My blood betrays me,
and I swear you can hear me.
Time makes things tidy, but memories
serve a different purpose.
Memories are less convenient,
less precious. The ribbons that hold them
are frayed at the ends.
As for me and my swollen organs,
the springs are a little rusted.
But I know that one day,
we'll be married.
The broken clock gives me a way.