the backs of my eyelids are kaleidescopes-
blender-mixtures of the crinkles of your nose-bridge,
panic attack lullibies,
and waterfall tear-ducts,
the scent of mixture so ripe with potential that love personifies itself
as unlimited clean water in Flint.

in your indefinite (permanent) absence,
it is a sensation not painfully unsterile as a homemade tattoo,
but not quite as pragmatically satiable as a common itch.

it's
hiccups at the podium,
sore legs moving into a third floor apartment,
a fender-****** in the sweltering seduction of summer.

------------------------------

your hemorrhage-generating image is a permanent stain that blends in just well enough to wear.