[loathe]

in night i lie

wrestling with the dark, which

falls by force; if

i could write it. it feels

like an impression of grief,

texture dappled under

wax on white paper.

so touch it. i wish time was

fluid, faster than

the dash of rain on

windowsills. go back and

be like it to me.

only if i can ask you.

why does love come bearing

a past like deadweight.

why. am i lain flat

in an empty dark, praying

against myself. and time,

if it came gradually.

what is what i was to want

if water tasted like this,

foreshadowing moon passing

over sun like your hands. which

i wanted to hold so much.

more than this feeling.

stars whisper. metaphors that

refer just to night,

as i lie, body in collapse,

the sound of streetlights fading,

crumpling. and you forget.

i know you forget. i am

discussing it in the present tense

and disregarding

what voids exist inside me.

you show your heart in eclipses,

shutter-flash arrhythmias;

do you see me. i finally

find my way back into bed with

hands that are colder than

any way the sky falls.

the window shows in squares of

light, and you are

touching them. and not me.