My bare skin, uncovered, by the quiet of night.
The absence of you in this absence of light, and the cold,
peering, hungry, between blinds from an outside absence of rain,
save for the drip of the sink, boring a hole in my brain, and I think…
Maybe out past the tips of my outstretched persistence. And I know,
that’s a hell of a distance…
Is a landing place for this hard, cloud-clad head.
Softer than the empty half of this bed.
And if I reach that place before I’m through… I hope it looks a little like you.