I know that someday soon,
My shabbily constructed paradise
Will shatter to a screaching end.

I'm aware that in the midst of a cold October noon,
Made of popsickle sticks and dry ice,
My castles will be blown away,
Gone, my lover and my friend.

Now I try to hold on to him,
Clinging and shivering, afraid of the future, so dim.

Interrupted, pre-exsposed,
Premature and undergrown.

Happy, am I that this is the way it must end,
Better loved and left, then never to have began.


                                      -3:09am
                                       October 11, 2004

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