Villanelle

You are the map to all my favorite ruins, My frantic thoughts, like wound-weevils, won't be still, And so my fingers trace the grief inside your veins. The doctors gave me pills for my delusions, But you became my strange and solemn will, You are the map to all my favorite ruins. They see a wreck; I see where love-bloom gains A hold in soil the sane would find too chill. And so my fingers trace the grief inside your veins. You are my north, my season of bone-rains, My cracked teapot you patiently will fill, You are the map to all my favorite ruins. My heart's a music box that screams and cranes Its neck for you; the horrid sounds grow still, And so my fingers trace the grief inside your veins. This marrow doll her sacred vow maintains, A grim flower upon your windowsill. You are the map to all my favorite ruins, And so my fingers trace the grief inside your veins.