TEXTBOOK

history uneases me like

flickers on a faded screen like

needing to a liken anything to everything

and my first memories are ground now

down to dust where mixed with these ashes

and painted with rust

and kisses aren’t of emptiness or

pain akin to being embraced

but I’d still find echoes of those ancient days

where I would ride a stride a man

on shoulders low and broad

hands clasped in his hair and

eyes dead a buried son

so every clean connection has that

familiar taste

of being close again  but

beating hearts quicken the pace of my

down motioned spiral of digging my hole

where I’m filling in the grave

dug for me when you folded

so there’s a hollow in me

a greedy little need

that speaks up so often of being

a true human being

and feeling human contact

and contrast with myself

something around besides me

someone beside me to keep me myself

easier to numb

this taste is a swollen thumb

a injury that cannot ever heal

so I am left alone with no touch of sympathy

just words from a far

silent nods of agreement

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