Fingers on the back of my neck
Curl into my hair,
And a sigh whispers in my ear.
Like a cat drinking I have unraveled my muscles,
Condensed them loosely around my bones,
And he has condensed
Himself loosely around me.
The mute and immovable weight
Of his eyes laying themselves on mine
Flattens my lungs,
And ever eager to fix he fastens over me
And breathes .
There isn't a He.
But if there was a He then
He made Everything perfect,
Which is to say
You, (if the world is You
And it is)
Then "just so and no better"
If there was a He to tell
(You are so much blooming out of ***** streets
And camellia blossoms,
Everywhere I, there
The blinding You bursting out of
And flooding my blood with
And I am somehow Perfection's possession
Like a cutout pasted onto white
There are We and the faded world behind)
He was then I'd tell him
He'd better give up now because nothing ever -
But You know I don't think
Any He could've thought up
(And the way Your cheeks fold when
Your teeth show and Your lips are
Just so and no better could ever)
I've thought and never alone even alone
You were always somewhere thinking -
(Gods are not so clever
Or so kind)
Impossible for Him.
(But Beauty, You press
Words into me and I seize
Oh! fingers never gripped so
But clutching and You press and hold and
The birds in my chest are singing
The lightning in my muscles screaming
Love wears a face and it looks on me
And You are!
For all my pitching and whining
And still I open my eyes
And there is no Nothing there,
But You are, oh Love
He never could,
But if He did I'd thank Him.
All these people:
Or streaking by
Brightly on bicycles,
Busily flying and still they
Manage a quick wave
And a smile...
All these people:
I weave among them;
I smile among them.
It's so much easier
To cry when you're alone;
It spoils you.
So then there's always that
One ******* tear,
And the getaway,
Not to disturb these people
These people smiling,
Accidentally locked out
Of my cavern,
With cold for company.
Cold, and thoughts
Kept hot in the thermos in my chest,
Borrowed juice of a ripe fruit -
A peach, do let's say a peach -
And in loneliness
Origami Man is going 'round
Cleverbuzzing and kindsmiling
At little sillyshining things
That sometimes climb Him,
With My name folded up inside
And warm in the thermos
In His paper chest -
The stem of a mouse wineglass
Is not so delicate
Nor is He any less
Solid than the granite
'Pon which I'm resting -
That something fragile should be
The thought pins me warmly
So what of a wait?
Inside or out, hot or cold,
Somehow somewhere He is
Impossibly folded up
I can wait.
My bed is full of crumbs:
It's odd how very very dire that is.
I'm surrounded by empty plastic
Containing the memories of food:
Traces, some crusty cheese, a last sip.
And my bed is full of sugary crumbs.
My hair clumps stickily to my neck.
The fluorescence of the room flickers -
(The fleeting worry of unfixable darkness)
How terrible it is to be sick in my bed
And sick of my bed.
Sick of nothing, nothing,
Nothing at all
And surrounded by
Hollowed, consumed, abandoned, desiccated,
It is not a taste,
My tongue running over my lips…
It is not a taste you have left,
For I taste only myself again,
But I taste now also
The absence of your lips.
It is not a sound you have left,
But the silence remembers your laugh,
And the floor recalls your feet,
Marking itself not with footprints
But with an absence of footprints:
The cold of my side remembering
Your warmth against it.
Crouching over him,
Pressing my thumb to his windpipe.
******* the unused oxygen from his mouth.
******* the weak tongue in his mouth.
His pelvis shifts.
You dive in headfirst,