.
my strings are no longer
.
………………attached.
.
run your fingers along their
corrugated edges and try to
find my song. it’s a lost drum
-line, a lumbering of the bones,
a long slow rift in a smoky blues
joint, a graphite pencil with a
broken point, a strain just a
stone’s throw from silence.
pick a window. a streetlamp.
the styrofoam cup on the
corner. the sun. any one
or more of these things
could break at any given
moment, cease to be. we
count days in boxes, tie
them with string, text our
selves reminders so we don’t
forget to breathe. we be
-lieve in something. nothing.
everything. we fall. we call
ourselves lucky for landing
on tippy toes instead of
our more obvious
ends.
my friend,
pick me a daisy,
and i’ll await
the questionable
redemption
of your quiet
……………..(s)laughter.
.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
The second stanza is fire. Gave me goosebumps.
I just read a book about dying – the way we are preserved, so to speak, or disposed of, in reality. So this had me in the mind of someone who was dying and was pointing out the true worth of what we are doing here with our time.
This strikes me as someone who is no longer in a committed relationship and is inviting someone else to take his best shot at her. But really, she sounds pretty broken, so I doubt he’ll get much in return.
“pick a window” For a second, I misread this as “pick a widow,” so that, of course, steered my interpretation in that direction. I’m picturing her husband having passed away, and in her loss, she’s looking for comfort in a friendship that could maybe be more.