the weight of my mind is polar
orange and viscous.
its fragility hangs in a gentle orbit,
gathering dust,
rubbing dully against my inner skull
- an object of my deepest desire.

but wide eyes gazed at you
amongst the black
through the kitchen window.
the house on the hill,
the blue door.
take off your shoes when you come.
i have needed you for twenty years.
but

i was not present when he intruded,
underneath my clothes.
but you were.
but it was gentle, a touch like a closed fist
but clamped, fumbling.
but
his love called his number, to no answer
a single, white noise -
the static after he says his own name.