I am made from all things –

a whisper in your ear,

the rip of your distance in this,

the swelling menace of a split,

where you reach and reach:

“...give me all”

 

I am frightened of

the left places in my head,

the sounds of empty arms.

Throw, they say, throw everything

into others,

they will be there - in the show

of your asylum later,

 

either in your turning cheek

or theirs.

 

I will never go.

 

In the tide of sprawling skin, and the sockets

I am pulled from -

calling, I will

feed on the soft purple walls of my heart

and matter more

than anything the fall

of me could bring in with cures.

 

I am more so the solid self,

outside any reason I could have;

the spittle and disasters of a safe place 

a maturity dissipates; outside any which way I have left to fake

within a censure that

hesitates me

before the foreboding white.

 

I am here and here and here –

scored on the flex of a man and a woman,

inside the bite of a rocking

limb.

Intentions - they are not at all what they say they are,

 

and rub up gently an almond shaped voice,

in the stare, in the stare, where  I am  –

too unthinking to look away.

 

This love is eternity –

this clutching, glue of sleep

alive in the arms of the impossible space

that fills you up and still anticipates,

 

holds you in

a cradle warm with you as you would be,

suspended in the want of another

forever -

 

that which I call breathing.

 

Promises are words you can't really -

You can’t!

The parting way we do the parting lies

when the peel of my heart

is too much at risk

(the loud asylum's cist)

 

is as damaging

as the way I was born -

 

running into you, grazed at the mouth.

 

I am made from things

that are incomplete –

 

the mist of my lips, the pucker dissolving in the sin

of not surviving the space I exist in –

 

Anais Nin, Proteus, the shin of you kicking inbetween the sheets,

the sickle fears, of your turning arm – fresh to feel the embalming

cool night

that stays awake, in silence, in shadows, where no sharp loyalty is drawn,

no pillar reformed in sturdy shock of sun -

 the secrets of these,

of the gruelling dark heart – inky octopus shivers in the out of reach –

is where I seem

to seethe, spoilt

in the childish scrawls, though my skin has aged, pushing myself into you.

 

I am here and here and here,

the point of malnutrition,

buck toothed,

 

crying out into the dark;

the intolerable probability.