Huddled in bed, my hollowed out mind,
sinuous and abashed, cannot
will not
let go of the slight incurvation holding your lips

Stranded in a meadow of wheat,
my head is not eradicated
of your silken hair
tracing a shadow on the creases of your brow

Floating in a stream of crystalline water
I am drenched in the thought of your hands
soft and red, finding their way to me
no matter the pull of the current

But at least
when I clench my fists so that my thumb is curled into the palm
and the red juice pumping through my arteries is felt
in unison with each deliberate breath
my mind is finally purged of your eyes.