religious functions and i don't get along.

Dear you,

It's 3:45 AM and this hotel bed has no memories to sing me to sleep

and these walls don't know my name

and these sheets don't understand what true love means

but it's not like that makes much of a difference in the first place

because my sheets only know the tears of anxiety

and the only definition of love they know comes from the moon

who is the closest I've ever come to a lover

I've told all my secrets to the moon and the trees

whose embraces I know almost as well as I know the way to talk to flowers

who I've been speaking to since my first funeral

and I've been loving the moon since I learned what 1 AM was like which wasn't too long after

it's 3:53 AM and I wish I'd never been told I prayed wrong

maybe then I'd still be as comfortable with talking to God as I am with talking to flowers

and then maybe I would have Jesus on my walls instead of twelve plants on my shelves

and maybe I'd understand what crying at a funeral is like

of the nine I've attended and the seven I've missed I still don't know what it means to hate death

maybe I've just never understood how to hate death who only knows how to embrace when life only knows how to fuck everyone around her

it's 4:01 AM and none of my thoughts are making any sense

all I know is I love the moon and this hotel room is too full of lingering antiseptic to sleep in

and I just wish I had some flowers to talk to about death because maybe they'd understand

Sincerely,
xx
Heather