Like Billy Budd Or Cyrano De Bergarac

You came by yourself but you left in a train. Following close to whatever is in front of you. The rails lay in their beds from Boston to Maine. And they trick themselves...they dream about waking up. So we fold like paper. Into the desk's top drawer, something I was writing. Into a tunnel's dark mouth, boxes have disappeared.
But we laughed out loud for each one we never opened. So now the Poets can guess at what we might have had - for all that loveliness my page is still just snow. So I follow your footprints, fill buckets with tears. And with that hot water I will make tea for you. Now you say that you're sick, but I think you're just bored of my jumbled words so inarticulate.
But you told me one time we were two twisted vines, green and inseparable. But that sturdy of a weave just isn't possible. So I will change my name, mm-hmm. You can pretend you never knew me and we'll fill up our floors with the discarded clothes, a skirt pulled from under my bed, something I loved on you.
Can you tell by my face? 'Cause I think that it shows. It is confusing here, it feels like I'm in a fog.