I would not see you through a night like this
smearing dusk’s red designs
into livid dawn like a cataract.
It would winter as a guest
asleep in our bed diffusing days glutted
with a hunger separating us like papered skin
I would never burn, even to see
through vaporous years sticky
with dispassion, or chew
like ancient wax if I am starving
this distance. I would scribe
each loathing I can pull through
my mouth, coiling around the house,
but I am not a room away I am
a room, glued and swollen,
curtains hanged under pillory sighs
someone else breathed.
What are you looking at
if you can still see me? I am not there.
No, not gasping. Yawning.
I will not ask you to watch me sleep
just to see you in the morning.

01/05/2023

Posted on 01/05/2023
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