my eyelids waver,
the mind dances its knotty little dance,
writhing clumsily toward survival,
limb over knobby limb in impromptu delirium,
barren as the endless open ocean,
without its trusty firmament in place.

despite my fear; so much heavy, primal fear,
my monstrous, starving, lustful conscience
rears its bony hind legs and pounces madly to gnaw at the waters,
drooling at the mere concept of submersion.

at sunrise, the world saved me a little dash of clemency,
(undeserved, Mind says, for all sinners are deserving–with you as the exception)
until halfway through the lazy afternoon
something–beautiful, lachrymose–reminded me of you;
and i hope one day i wholeheartedly adore myself
with that same youthful, earnest fervor,
shedding this old, tired skin of mine.

a divine creature died between us
three years–no, universes–ago,
yet God lives on, and so do i.
my lungs expand out and out without you;
some days i wish they hadn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t,
but here i am, seeing and smelling and tasting
and living and bleeding and aching,
cradling my hollow arms inward,
as if they offer me any bitter scraps of spoiled comfort.
how many times must i confess–
how many words, rewritten countless times
on the same wrinkled parchment,
must i say, and sing, and weep
before it just. stops. hurting?

i cannot lie to myself,
nor can you, nor can anyone!
because some beasts will not be ignored;
they will claw at your skull and demand to ravage your ear
until you appease their immortal appetites,
lest they chase you down into the dank and tenebrous recesses of madness.

shush!
there are always quieter sounds.
a deep contrast to the harrowing howls and growls of grief–
light, without warmth or ice, and sometimes incessant.
the steady flitter of tiny wings against my skeletal iron,
and a twittering, honest to God birdsong
that echoes absently through the tunnels and gorges of my mind.
the hushed cries of longing, a simpler way of speaking;
my woebegone dreaming with a sadder meaning
which is to say, until i can think nothing else:
i do miss you.

more than the earth misses the moon,
neither whole after collision, still orbiting from afar.
apart forevermore, just as my hand is over my heart,
grasping, yet never able to breach my skin, and bone, and throbbing organs.
truly, my desperate, sweltering love was not designed to escape you;
you, who captured rare, immutable fragments of my soul–
therefore, treat them well.

if the vagabond that i am cannot meander
through your heart’s golden corridors any longer,
then set aside a dusty corner of your mind
and just remember me.