last of the autumn poems

the first one who comes galloping up
with autumn leaves
and thereby on this paper

or waves them against my computer screen
so that they're falling on this poem
I will personally slit your throat 

because I'm sick
of words that want to provide comfort 
for things there is no comfort for

too tired mostly
to get up every morning naked and pale
as the same person

I'd rather that you'd forget me for a while,
bury these words in a shallow grave
and lay yourself  right next to it

can I lie there with you? then we meet there
only to awake when this leaf 
has fully disintegrated

because if death can be subdued 
with only a couple of pretty lines
I would have written those for you

I also know
they're not written here
forgive me