I am your poet who hasn't written anything,
and while you ask me why we should see each other I reply
we ought to see each other again before anything can be decided during our time apart
I heard both cries of terror and delight alike, but we did not come for each other
we hid ourselves purposely in the brush, and although nobody knew the truth but us,
we never strayed more than 48 hours from each other's voice
and found our way home via the scent of our own piss
we walk away as our eyes squint in the unrelenting rays of the sun
truth unspoiled beneath true green
holy and free, settle your weight upon me
we're just another slow motion killing machine