Letter

Tongues in each others mouth is how lovers
speak to unsettle eternal darkness.

My tongue touches nothing. Email and texts
are a weak ersatz for your absence. I inhale

from a perfumed letter you sent last summer.
Its musky patchouli is you. Wrapped around

my waist, breathing, hard. Tonight the moon shakes
powder from her boney skin. Bamboo chimes

rattle the breeze like the silk-strung bones
of my own fingers sifting through the thick

peach of your hair. Paramours at the end
of the mind, (Stevens, you were wrong) we are

dreams that forget themselves as is
our preternatural natures to predispose us

into the waking dreams of our own minds
that coats the garden in this quiet ashen light

powered by the prolonged pain of your absence:
I am not waving but drowning.

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(copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved)