sick

Give me your sick nostalgia
I’ll give you a quiet place to sleep
Those hooks aren’t too deep;
I’ll slide them out slow
so you can rest on your feet.

Give me your mixed-up matters
I’ll give you a single partner
The kind who will not falter;
I’ll show fact, not fiction
You can’t dispute on your back

Flitting windows,
closing books.
Minutes walk by;
a moment's look.
this is closure,
a finality feel

Give me your hanging eyelids
I’ll give you a quiet place to sleep
These matters aren’t too deep;
I’ll murmur all my words low
You can fall underneath.