Sometimes, my skull fills with water
And I forget what we are
We are not.
We

Typewritten letters punch holes inside my mind
Beams of light sifting through sand.
Or rainshowers
impregnating truth
where there is none

My physical realisation
wants for nothing.
Nothing
in us carries the weight
of our waters
like the ebb and flow
of life’s tide.

There is truth in
the fleeting beauty
of the shadows of trees.
Only your light swims
polynomial arcs, leaves
in the sea of air
exhaled by winter.
Glimpses only the weight
of your branches can unfold
and loves only the
paths of our soul have foretold.

It is dark,
the universe between us.
In the absence of gravity
your light has scattered
to places I don’t know.

You are the moon. (An illusion of
light, maybe. Or a mirror)
Heavy,
a winter coat
shrugged off.
Is what I used to be

Somewhere
there is a room
of objects
tainted
by your fragile presence.

The crunch of glass
closes me tightly
throat, eyes, toes gripping.
A halo of fluorescent pink
around his dripping skull.

I avert myself
my eyes
swallowed by the night
and cease to exist.
Fear precipitates on
city fumes,
turning into tiny droplets
that run red rivers.

Somewhere
there is a room
of objects.
It comforts me.