My Own Tragic Hands

My own tragic hands. 
Drunken sousaphone players. 
My death at age infinity from causes unknown. 
All the lonely nights I spent looking for the incredible whiteness of her being. 
These laments so profound that the dark night fairly ripples as I cry out for you and only you and the edge of nothingness approaches but I cry. 
Not. 
There is love and there is eternity and there is the madness of the man on the precipice. 
I tried to fake it. 
But no more the tears than the wasted years of everything I ever said or did. 
And still I dream.

There are apples that explode with the juices an mingle with the saliva and spell the word healthy. 
I munch. 
You love me. 
You who are so lost sometimes in the passing cascade. 
Come to me, my love. 
Share in the tomorrow of my yesterday. 
As I strip away the false hopes of tender hearted lies. 
We who are happy smile.