A Vessel, Broken (and all that it contains)

She says it's the little things she'll miss,
Like the summer nights in the park and
That first burning kiss. The stars all stitched
And sewn against the dark cloth of night,
And the crisp warmth of a winter day's light.

And it wasn't really so bad, not really. A bit
Absurd where the features blurred, the faces
In the crowds screaming aloud, "What else
Can there possibly be!" Well tell me.

There are menthol cigarettes smoldering
In glass ashtrays. Warm scarves tied around
Thin necks like nooses. Waxy candles that
Smell like cinnamon and vanilla. Lovers
That hide away remembered moments in shoe boxes.

There are stop signs ignored in the night. The glow
Of tail lights far down dark roads. The sigh of metal
Meeting it's own. The showers of glass that rain down.
There are lovers dying in loving arms, whispering
Softly of what they'll miss the most.

There are things I'll miss, I well know this. But
I'd rather die there, the cradle of her form than
The shambling storm that will come. All red tears
And black howls forlorn; a broken vessel spilling.