Peel back the gauze,

the mesh-work,

the skein of your vast

improbable being.

I want to see

the spaces where your pain

is still fresh,

those wounds which

are still malleable.

I want to see you

before you’ve shriveled

into a scar,

into prisms of panic

and unfinished flesh.

An inchoate soup simmers

on a hearth of my own design.

Into the pot I press

your inconsolable words

and your tears vague as dew.

The only way to know a man

is to consume him, piecemeal,

without the ruse of sentiment.

There can be no secrets between us

only omissions and oversights.