Tuesday, March 26, 2013

I'm a wound

I have no photograph of you.
At times I hardly can believe in you.
Except this ache,
something longing in my gut,
this emptiness which terrorizes you
because if there is emptiness this deep,
there must be fullness somewhere.

My other half,
my life beyond this half-life
is like a wound
which dreams of being healed.

Is love a wound which deepens
as it dreams?

Do you exist?

I've been conjuring you
in palpable absence
my longings left exposed

I'm a print of darkness
on a square of film

I'm a garbled dream
told by a breakfast table liar

I'm a wound
that's forgotten how to heal.