And when the drink settles
and the head is gone
and the music thuds into an unheard throbbing hum,
there is the sorrow
and the aching hole,
the habit of survival
that lives beyond the span of love.

And though the rain drags guts and shit
through a rusting hut where Edward sits,
he will remain,
yellow-eyed and high,
because the rain does not intend to cleanse
and his wound does not intend to heal
and his pain, incomparable to mine,
is just another silent drum
that beats beyond the span of love.