A light is on me
Radiant solitude
Illuminates me
I stand in absence
Of my shadow

Whole but
Incomplete
I exist, solid
Tactile reality
And longing

A part of me
Is missing
I can’t touch it
But, I feel its
Vacancy

I am incomplete

And still—
I dream in outlines
Of your touch,
A warmth I’ve never
Held, yet carry
Everywhere.

Across the distance
You are both presence
And ache, and
A pulse inside desire,
A voice in my silence.

I miss you—
Perfect stranger,
As if the missing
Was always you,
And I have only now
Learned its name

I am so many, many parts
Of the same broken vase
I hold my weight
Disproportionally
And tilt
Asymetrically
I'm still art
Some of the pieces have been mend
Some of the lines are liquid gold
But we all hold
The pain
Compartmentalized
Surgically removed the warmth
From the heart and
The sad
From the mouth and
The pain
From the brain and
Surgically scatterend them across
Suppose
Memory is always one to be dead weight
I am the surgeon
I'm one
Unique and
Worth the same

It came like weather.
No origin.
No request.

Just a shift in pressure
    inside the skin.
And something
  started speaking
    through my hands.

It wasn’t mine.
Not the phrase.
Not the image.
Not the ache it left.

But it needed a body
  to pass through.
And mine
  was open
    enough.

There are moments
when I read back what I wrote
  and feel
    like a stranger
    with my own voice.

Not confused.
Not proud.
Just…
  borrowed.

I don’t always know
 what I’m doing.
But sometimes,
 not knowing
  is what lets it happen.

Call it muse.
Call it current.
Call it memory
      from before this life.

I don’t need to name it.
Just not get in the way.

Fear teaches me, sort of aimlessly.

Blaming a resilience I wish I'd seen,
The punch I wish I’d been -
A prey I wished I'd hit.

Overshadowing the dopamine I’d like to feel.

Via guilt-induced tears, effortfully shield-building
Via timeless dampening -
I’m nervously standing, brainlessly censoring.

But never has anger crossed that brain,
Never have I ever played this game.