Leather skinned and toothless

Oh. I know what this is.

This is where the writing leaves us.
The rain. The cars. The quiet reflection.
And, I don't feel
anything.

If you asked me,
with smoke uncurling from your whiskered mouth,
eyes wet with vodka:
"Was it worth it?" [Like some old movie]
I won't know. For once.
What is worth? Some people require no questions.

I want an old woman, leather skinned and toothless,
wiry hair braided up.

I want to tuck her into her hospital bed and hold her hand in mine.

I want to read her old war letters from her husband from when they were 19 and he was still alive. The measure of her life and the summer rain filling the room, fighting against the chill of the air conditioner up too high, lacing my voice.

I want lace and sleep.

I want the taste of coffee, stale and cold- the sound of birds awakening, the metal of silence.

I want a sleep so deep that when I wake I am reborn.

Most of all, I want those first few weeks back.
Those weeks when my heart was learning your name. I want them back. I want to stop living in a haunted house.

I want to live in a world where I could love you freely and without bleeding. Or one where I am loved as I should be. Or, sleep. Maybe just sleep.