I want him to love me the way one loves
a whimpering and
neglected dog,
with pity and
with worry and with
shame. He will find me
in an alley, shivering and
shaking, hiding from the rain.
He will coax me out from beneath whatever
discarded scrap I am cowering under, he will wrap
me in a towel or blanket or his jacket, something - anything - warm.

He will carry me home, to his home. He will place me
by the radiator, turned up to full. I will curl up
beneath it, still shivering, still shaking, while he goes to the kitchen in the
hopes of finding me something to eat.
He will rummage through the
fridge trying, to the best of his ability, to recall
exactly what does
and what does not
**** a dog.
"A lot." I will say. "More than
you think." I will say.
And he will just smile and bring me
something that doesn't.

I tell him I will not live long. He could
do anything and I would not live long. He says he has
forgiven worse sins. I tell him I
hope he never dies. He tells me I will
be disappointed. I tell him I love him. He says I love him
the way a whimpering and
neglected dog does,
desperately, painfully, with a need and
a hunger found only in children and
anorexics. He tells me
he loves me too. I tell him
I am sorry. He says he has forgiven
worse sins.

He strokes between my eyes,
a gentle spot, designed only for soothing something
to sleep. Perhaps by morning I will be
cured, my whimpering ceased, my shakes subsided. I will
run through his house, tail wagging, while he smiles and
laughs and drinks his coffee. Or perhaps there
will be no change, perhaps he will have to drive
me to the vet and have me
put down. Perhaps he will want to. A mangy thing, sick and
diseased. Irreparable.
Unsavable. Perhaps he won't need to. Perhaps
by morning I will
already be dead. But
for now I will sleep, warm
and fed, a hand soft between
the eyes.

I feel like a detective
brushing down
a crime scene,
or perhaps a
runaway bride,
hiding in plain sight.
Lost
but not gone,
the fingerprints
washed away,
the ****** weapon
left behind.

There's no past like it,
and no future to follow;
a ghost that
breathes,
a newborn that
doesn't.
I feel
like the
final chapter,
and nothing
more.

I haunt,
I linger,
I remain,
though only in
death and decay.
Though only as a ghost.

My mother
taught me that.
My mother taught me
how to haunt,
how to be there but
not really.

How to be
a ghost that
breathes,
or, perhaps,
a newborn that
doesn't.

Bones asleep on ocean floors
tell a story like no other,
we are a natural machine,
a creature cursed.
To soil, earth, rock,
it's been no time at all.
To us it’s been an eternity.

I think humans each have a few fundamental flaws,
and that each one is its own personal tragedy.
I think one or two are someone else.
A natural result of hearts incompatible,
not everyone can love you back.

You are to devour me one day,
or perhaps I, you.
Currently we are blank slates,
beings so young,
beings so old.
We knew each other back then,
I can feel it.
Quarks coming together,
fossilised footprints whose paths intersect,
fish in a fishbowl,
rats in a cage.
But one day you are to devour me,
or perhaps I, you.
And we will be joined as we once were,
two people sharing a body,  
hearts beating together,
lungs expanding as one.

The word soulmate springs to mind,
the idea of my heart beating anywhere
but besides yours terrifies me.
It unsettles me,
makes me sick, absent.

And I’ve felt this absence for years,
it's starting to get to me,
weigh me down, a led balloon,
a ship in the storm,
pockets filled with rocks.
A part of me wants you to feel it too.
Another hopes you never know such a weight.

Sometimes I can’t stand it, alone in my chest,
I lay it out on the table,
watch it pulse and ooze, beat painfully,
beat alone,
and I dream of a time long ago,
an eternity away,
where you and I were there, combined,
with no before and with no after,
quarks coming together,
rats in a cage,
thoughts lying only with each other.

I dream of a future, much the same,
our hearts beating, our lungs breathing,
thoughts simultaneous,
laying side by side,
bones asleep on ocean floors.