Grief becomes you, my darling,
it makes you create
It seeps into the crevasses you leave
for lovers and hope and little lists of lovely things.
The breaking of your heart is a foghorn
guiding words on hideous seas in paper boats slowly sinking
searching for their drowned sentences on pebbled beaches,
shivering and sore.
It makes you eat but leaves you hungry,
and if paper boats were food you'd never sleep.
If paper boats were money, you could buy a new builder
No more picking up their soggy corpses on pebbled beaches
You could sail a poem
on an unwavering course
straight into someone's heart.