Postmarked

It's a corner place in Collingswood,
I daydreamt us there.
Just a casual place to kill the time
til we went where we could stare
into the heart of everything around us.
We would have held hands,
and walked almost in stride.
We would've stayed til the sun left,
forcing us inside.

This was before we died.
This was before we got sick.

We wound up at St. Vincent's,
the hospital where my hero passed.
The staff said he could write all the right words,
But his heart never stood a chance.

I think the injections got to you.
Feltenstein and his needles, without a doubt.
They always filled your blood, always ran you cold.
They changed everything you knew anything about
for the worse.

And me, I caught worry.
It wrapped around my skin.
It squeezed til it got in,
til I was never heard from again.

Now we both lay in the yard,
different plots to be sure.
We went too gentle into the night,
our eyes tore apart our hearts.