she keeps telling me to marry you

I woke up to the first song I wrote for you.
I was dreaming you thought it okay to invite me in.
and cover me, wishes aside.
I want to call you and confess
I haven't been an angel.
That I crave the hands from poet to Jew.
a face of lines, like starving rivers,
suggesting a choir of torn women,
somewhere and everywhere,
are cautioning their daughters
and touching themselves in the absence of pregnant moons.
Darling, if you quit smoking,
you may never become a tree.
What would i climb come sundays?
What fruit, forbidden, to poison me?
I invite you to question all my lovers.
I invite you to kill them, too.
They weren't my pills and they are not blind.
but I yawn and deny that I miss you.
Even brighter than angry sheets and pleas, o take your hand,
is the hope that I'll sober up,
and I'll find you near the red sea, burning slow.
We'll pour our excuses like rain.
and gnaw at each others bones.
and you'll wake up beside a corpse.
and I'll wake up alone.