Parchment

Suspended in all its wonder 

         The heavy dot

Spun out from the universe 

And willed itself into being 

Into time-bound reality 

Into primitive carbon vessel 

      Flawed and perfect 

The ink remembers the pen 

       The invisible hand 

That shoots comets and opens petals 

May it's stories be worth writing

Close

I became addicted to the smell of your neck.
Your tea.
The sliver of truth in the stories you told.
But you have sharp edges, 
And I cut myself.
Over and over,
Trying to handle you differently.

I could not know that you coveted the light in my eyes.
That you stole and hid away.
In one of your many dark boxes.
All is black in your weaponized absence.
Still I wait.
Needlessly,
Counterintuitively,
For us to be how we once were,
Close.