All I have are impressions,
sentiments pressed into paper,
in a crucible of grisly white.
Your facsimile drips from my fingers
unbridled and contagious.
Everything I write, do, breathe
has been infiltrated
with your electric blue aura.
Do you ever feel claustrophobic
knowing that you are inside of me?
All day I sit hammering the keys
and gnashing my teeth
in search of fire, in search of peace.
All night I lie peeling back the moon
so that I can count the stars behind it.
Do you ever wonder how my haggard heart
goes on beating despite a skein of impenetrable scars?
The better part of me
still seeks the extraordinary
in what others call mundane.
I have not forgotten the magic
of two people meeting
for the first time
only to find that they have met
hundreds of times before
in ways that they cannot