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.
(copyright 2016 Kurt Lovelace all rights reserved)