i'm so afraid of being alone
with myself, with my thoughts
with the pulsingly active wound
that is the knowledge
that i will eventually die
that a bed to myself
is enough to shred a rake
across a rib cage
all that empty space
- it fits two, it holds one -
all it says to me
is that one day it will hold none
I cling to dying lovers in the vain hope that they will not die
or at least the chance
that this thing i know about myself
they may not know yet about them
and maybe their ignorance
avoids tipping off the scythe-wielding infinite
already on its way to me
.
i count on their warm bodies
as bulwarks against the sting
if i can kiss them
caress them
hold tight to their skin
that's three whole activities
to keep busy in the late-night hush
their breathing
their subtle repositions
more than enough of a show to binge
to keep the seconds sluicing by
as the terrible knowing that chases me
sprinting
from myself
remains mercifully
if momentarily
at bay
Comments