i pass on a story to empty barstools and
     cathedrals -- that i will remain as
      inconsolably so

  and ask, shall I be free so as to
      suffer myself?

 admitting i am shaped according
     to your demands,

    where, first there is you and the last
 always the prime of days;

where mapping out or telling a thread
   is inclination to never mind

our place. the need to bury you
   in my own Earth, willing to make you

meet a darkness which you once
   were as if to swallow the entire verity

of common peril. this perish, this drown
    first before displacement, to conceive

the evening within stories you have
    created beginning with a sharp departure

making your silence and abandon final,
   myself less than total.

that when i look at you, i want to burst
    into meaning like stone being taught

to speak, as much like your study as comparatively
    a bluer dawn rising from your feet

you passed me on as someone else, a makeshift freedom underneath an impalpable source,

that i am sick in your densest volumes
    when you speak, all the more when you dont

realize that I am trying to gravitate you
  into something, say to allow me into remembrance

and you, an insistence to function in void.
    that whilst you remember, you forget

   that in the tense moments I am trying to unlearn
you, as if there was only I,

    the city we were both in underneath a senseless moon, and whatever it was that i saw in you

 in such an imperfect night -- taking all your debris,
     the body of all this sliding into reticence

  as detritus, the unflinching weight of yourself
     as time stumbles to shuffle absence.

 strange now as the morning peers through
   the wide aperture, there is only I,

  faced with rivers as transit; when there was once
I moored in place and you have learned

       how to walk, and further away.