the marvelous adventures and musings of one mr. M.

My dear Mr. M, do you really not see

this jesting dread below your chin,

or the noxious smoke as it settles

right between your willing lips?

They both spiral and comfort

your lungs and your mind,

the full extent I know not of--

I rely on 80 proof remedies

to get me through the night.

My dear Mr. M, will you please try to see

that where I'm lacking in rhymes

I can make up for with sincerity:

as the creases of your hands run along black and white keys,

and the sounds flooding out are those

of incomplete melancholy.

You must know those are the fingertips

I want on my face as you speak,

and I would gift-wrap my thoughts so

they're part of the air that you breathe.

I'd tie a lasso around the moon,

find you stardust so bright it's blinding,

if it gave you enough light to appease

all the ghosts that you are hiding.

And I'm afraid I must remind you,

since our clock won't cease its chiming:

in order to fully go on living

you'll need to accept

that we are dying.

So, my dear Mr. M, I hope you'll now see,

at long last, as we drift off to sleep,

how my affection does not rely

on your smoke-ridden misery,

but instead trusts the

multi-faceted

heartbeats

of your

company.