bruises, cuts, and aching joints
promise to never abandon me
but they do, sometimes returning
and always as if part of a story

a few have remained, loyal, unchanged
outlasting even the most persistent relation
preferring to linger in the undocumented gaps of existence
unwavered by the nagging flings of hesitation

these are my brothers, icons of nature
redefining with every sting the ties between the living and the dead
i'm drowning in the slowness of the idea between the pencil and notepad
the unwelcome sunrise wakes whoever may or may not be sleeping in my bed

and as i'm promised by the aging giants of my youth
the ghosts of overused body parts will grow more desperate
stay longer, and return more frequently
like the women of bukowski poems, begging for this, demanding that