Hollow
You were wild lines on that day (and every day)
Carving the air with the careless slope of your back
And the straight aim of your steps:
A forward-facing end.
I don't believe your shadow
Ever quite touched the ground.
(We were strained angles in the shade
Intersecting vigorously, whispering
Our sorries in each other's mouths
Shutting our shapes
Against each other
And in lit rooms, among friends, I sneered
And turned away from the scent of you:
Skin, and rain, and whispers.)
Every day
I've matched the hollow in me
With the shape of your grave
And every day
I'm fewer steps away
From crossing paths with you again.
