the well:

At the end of the trail there’s a dry well.

Leaned against the mossy stone is a broken wheel.

Many years ago it belonged to a wagon,

now it only belongs to time.

I loved you like I love that well, like I love

that wagon wheel, broken as it is.

I’m like a weed, I grow into your cracks.

Trying to sew with my skin and bone.

Love is an ouroboros.

You’ve already had your pound of flesh.

Leave me here at the well.

With the broken wheel,

the creeping ivy.

I’m comfortable here