I love you.

The eyes that fall from lover's race,
long lost in the midnight
with lips muttering of feelings and finance and chasing the dream and waiting and watching and counting tickets.
Tick, tick, tock
screams a clock through chattering teeth
as an old woman with no delusion of grandeur
falls asleep and is cold
and is quiet
and is weak in the night.
The loss of a life in both blood and in friends seems so strange to induce excitement for Heaven
doesn't seem so great,
even if I believe in God,
in comparison to having my nan
at home,
well in the kitchen
cooking Sunday roast and kissing my grazed knees
and teaching me all the things my hardworking mother
unfortunately never had time to.