Wasting

here she is,

    saying I'll tell you a story.

She holds my hand and takes me somewhere  cold and dark and quiet  

To waste in cavity

With old rocking chairs and  eggshells and 

  A small corner to curl up in

Fester in the dark like old gin

Bottles and bottles of it   in a row on the shelf

fermenting

The sour  taste  of lips and wants 

Terrible wants 

She tells me a terrible story.

Now I stay here,

  some kind of dull thing  amongst all the others      a walnut shell   

      bird shit on a windowsill

              dust  or

  something or other

  wasting away in the night without thought     

with her cold fingers in my hair and about the room

And those bottles    And my patience

In the cradles of her bones

Numb

Without anger 

Asleep

But in dreams I wonder who I'd be.

if she ever set me free