It calls for me.

It laps against my bare feet
barer than the dead bodies.

It is an actual mirage
A true illusion
A real lie.

It calls for me.

It whispers in my ear
And this time it’s not the wind
Not the screams not the cries.

But it’s the whispers
Of a kiss on the neck
Of a finger on the small of your back.

It calls for me.

It reaches up to my
Legs of age and death
Of loss and grief.

This time it’s not a bullet
Grazing past my calves
It’s the blood trickling down.

I long for it.

It calls me.

I fall into it.

It calls me.

Bare and broken.

It calls me.

It calls me.

It calls-