My viscera wilts sick from withholding.
My hands fall in tatters.
My jaw is a fortress of incomplete sentences.
I smuggle in secrets, tangents, moods
each one vaguer and more explicit than the next.
What becomes of those who cannot commit to freedom?
I am concave, an empty womb,
a shy moon rocking on its side,
a sliver of shadow
in a rhetorical human casing.
I have never truly loved myself
but I have tolerated worse.
My fingers are numb with lacing.
My face is a bowl of water without the quiver.
I am ready to pounce
but I lack the gravity of expectation.
What I believe and what I deserve rarely coincide.
I am in need of a blessing
but too dumb to reproduce
the details of my bondage.
How does one approach death unannounced?
Who recovers him when he returns to dust?
I was once a figment
translucent and multi-dimensional.
Now I am a destination
full of empty houses
and rust-rotted automobiles piled
posthumously into towers too precarious to climb.
Will you love me tomorrow
when I am just as imperfect,
when I lack the easement of my finely attuned senses,
when erosion has absconded with everything
but my beloved melancholia?
I cannot compete with the then
of your tiresome nostalgia.
I am but a momentary thing
recklessly new and irrevocably ancient.