Convergence.

Artists.
Building self-portraits from trash
Typing without looking at the keys
Staring past my eyes

Don't you forget this, love.
He's never held your hand tighter
The blood's stopped flowing
And even if the line is dead
Keep on writing your letters
He presses them to his heart
And he waits —

He waits —

There will be those flickers of the eyes
You'll never know how much he's holding back
A love you've never touched
A flood
He thinks of you and
Those smiles and sighs

There will be those rendezvouses
Meet his ghost this time tomorrow

There will be those messages in code
Your breath in the cold
Those birds flying north

Hold onto hope, lovely soul —