A poem by Alex S.

The hardest part,
  of course,
Wasn’t the end.
It was the post mortem.

The disappointment
of an honest embrace denied
For the best of reasons.

The most delicate of life’s indignities:
To look one in the face and know
They don’t have what you want
And they don’t want what you have.

The finality of the staircase decent.

The look on your face that you will never see.
Only feel it in all its piteous urgency.

Give me a penny for my thoughts
Cheap at the cost of the dirt it takes
To dust the box I place my
heart back into.

Quiet now.
                            Don’t wake it.
For the love of god do not.

Because to find the hope at the bottom,
like in the old song,
It gets harder and harder each time
to see the dread inventions
that pile within.