mark kozelek

:gently in these ragged folds:
:curled up and warm like easter's child:
:a breath so faint, angelic weight:
:i can't deny:
:that i drift sometimes:
:even in these loving moments:
:to summery fields i call my own:
:where i can lie and in them feel:
:at one with my death
with limbs outstretched:
:i can't deny:
:that i'm weak sometimes:
:even in my strongest moments:
:and the way you cry at me:
:i don't know why:
:you stay: