i see you

look at you
awash in oats
and the blood of dear strangers

we are decent
here in steady beeps
heavy whirs
and long machinated breaths

i cast a stare
at warm sweet death
and see how you love him so well

then think,
perhaps he could be
a friend of mine.

When you speak,
i do not understand
but he does.

When you smile
i do not know why
he pats your shoulders
with his ivory phalanges

Then,
when you weep
he holds you.

Oh that dear sweet death
if only you could be more bitter

it is love though
there in your arms
where she knows comfort
that gives me hope