1095

and here i am
drenched in an identity
of my own making:
a tired young man
too selfish to love
too self aware to be loved
and scampering like a rabbit
lost on the moor

my obsession bleeds
and leans its head on me
growing into a stark white
desire to possess

and i feel a blame growing
spreading its roots
up my leg
an ignorant plea
to demand a clue
a solution to the nightly
hunger: what’s the difference
between her being beside me
or apart
when the love is the same?

the other night after the show
a woman with her hair
stood by the doors
her face obscured
and i was overcome
with a great confusion
“I didn’t leave. I was always here. You look just as beautiful as you did. Where did it all go wrong? Let me come over and I’ll eat your hair one more time. You can kick and push me and I’ll lick your hands. We’ll be lovers who stand by the door, unsure which foot to put first. ”