There’s no light that comes
when the day crashes to the ground
and bruises.
It fades, weaving and gliding through
places where we once left
our ghosts.
Watch them; now they laugh,
now they mock our sullen eyes
and dance.
Watch as they soak up
the brightness of our minds
and fade.
They quiver, then vanish
from the hollow places inside
our heads.

I can’t wait for the day he feels me all over,

rough hands roaming clumsily on skin.

Wait till I show him

the things his body aches for.

In a way

he became me

for a moment.

If anyone happened

to present themselves to me

at that particular time -

music pulsing,

heads nodding,

bodies moving

against hot hands and chests -

I’d like to believe

he’d answer for me.

Be my voice,

speak for me

while I’m away

underneath his skin.

Be my hands;

gesture loosely

at the things he’d think I’d say.

My apologies

I am not here;

speak to the man who,

just for a moment,

has become me.

So,

do you have words to say?

Do you have places to be?

Are you seeing things

the way you describe them?

The world, the universe?

Are your eyes like mine?