Next Time

Happier when I miss you.
Happier when the tides roll in,
wash back my sin,
leave me with the seashells of my soul.
Sold to the highest bidder.
I squirm and slither,
grow old and bitter
at the bite in your words
and as if you never heard me
you speak sweetly,
entreat me
to love you again,
pick up my sin
and carry it down
into the pit
where I can stomach your betrayal.
I will run the streets
raving of an old love,
early blossomed,
quick to freeze in a late frost,
withered down to my betrayed roots.
I should have chosen a different life,
a stronger body,
a better head to store my brain in.
And there it is.
My soul wanders toward my next life,
hoping to get it right next time.