I meet myself

I does not hurt at all – it’s not that I love you less

There is a mole of confidence in this write

It leaves an artery of air; where root delved and died

Leaving a nerve of space within the narrowness

As to water does when striking stones along the way

Disrupting quite suddenly – easier explained in quarantine

Inadequate

image

The actual ghost rises as though it ever lived

Bodies rearranged, with nothing left to do

I suppose those are the voices whispering

‘We’ve paved the road’ – you’re more real

To those who follow a tone of voice

I had a lover once

even if the knife was never in our fist; I observed how the clouds assembled, almost amputating

if you think of me, watch your ribcage, you’d swear it rings as it passes altitude, an exchange

a charge of bolting, an altering that turns into rain, a high posture where you keep the faith

- To be continued

 

 

If

I should touch him, even tenderly

I would be suspected, not a ghost of a sound

But an articulate word, a lilac

With a hint of flesh,  a slick garden

Between the boxed wood, and rosebush

Gathering desire, the pollen for its use