I smell of you
My body aches and
my eyes are sore.
I will hold your breath over my skin
Your bones on my bones
Your shorn hair under my fingertips
for twenty-five days now.
I cannot lie, I will not get anything temporal done in the next four weeks. I will make plans, lists, I know the things I have to do (for they are all the same things, the same list I made four weeks ago, pale-faced on the train), and I will lie and promise that I have done them should anyone enquire. But I have learned that all I can do is wait, for you. And distract myself from the fatted hours and swollen days that hold your body from my arms, my mouth from your mouth. I am consumed, and float in the belly of your absence, awaiting the kiss of your light. I know a soul is a burden, and I should not have succumbed to the ungrateful compulsion of leaving mine to you while it occupies my flesh still and when you already have one of your own to bear. But be gentle with me, be kind, be thoughtful, because I cannot be for myself anymore.