wither

within, the worn
reaches of things
withering, absence
as my shadow, its
broken appearance as
silent blindness,
when i am only,
and if, and
that is all. such
fantasies as we are, baby,
we come
crashing back
as blackness beneath the clouds,
as waves stumble
drunkenly onto alleyways
between land and sea.

i am no sailor.

i am no longer
defined by these oppositions.
even as it pains
sinks hurts like hooks in skins
blessed with delicacy
and nothing to feel, as
against a warmth
next to cold cravings.
so what
if it was a good time,
the sky
a falling blanket,
neat hair bundles hovering
over this eternal thirst, and
i thirst. still
there is always the walk back.
the drive home.

there is never a home.

there is never my shadow,
its broken light. when i am
only, and if, and
only if. and that
is all.