your face went on every milk carton in my dreams when you went missing & i listened to a song about how the churches in your hometown were built from the martyred mahogany of shipwrecks i dare you to think i can't rip the very mood from your temperate fingertips when i am cold and hell bent on seeing you oceans away, wince this is not an "i saw this coming all along" poem or a "i still wonder about the moments between breaths when your phone lights up" poem.. this is a will & a way with brass knuckles maybe a barehanded bludgeon but i swear i'm trying to sleep at night without wondering how cold it is in your bed. so mother goose tell me about the whispered prayers crammed into the earthquakes you call hands about an ennui that speaks to me.