Sometimes it is not easy to give
up. You want to know what or
who to belong to. Darkness envelops

hidden parts to this patholigica.

If I cannot see myself, then who is
it that I am residing with? She calls to me
from behind the glass, love is my own

to behold from inside clear eyes.

What do I (want to) know? Who does she
long to be, when only half of the darkened side
decides to rush out these noises. She

watches me as she sleeps.

How can I know what this obscure
creature needs (to be)? Long hair drapes
from the edge of the violet pillow, washed black

from auburn, curls ever pointing down.

The empty is like the clear bluegreen inside
my darkness. She has her own voices, is lonely
from the silence I gave her. It is time she knew again

what their shapes sounded like.


© March 30th 2014