Not Wearing Glasses
I walk through thin veils
of colored light and carefully
tread upon gleaming shards
of precious glass -
broken and neatly scattered
upon arctic bathroom tiles.
Each sliver reflects
a single piece of your
perfect anatomy.
An arm, a leg, an eyeball -
a swollen horizontal speck
perceiving a soloist’s surrender
outside a witch’s mirror.
I cried your name
in between
loathsome waves of solitude
this past weekend -
weightless letters floating
above my bleeding passion
like starved vultures
gleaning over carrion.
Did you know the affection
I’ve smothered you with
these past thirty years
is beginning to smell
like dirty nylon socks?
I use them now to
dampen my bloated eyes.
You're fitly ignorant
of my extended limbs
and repressed sorrows.
They covet apparel
not filamented with
fleece and falsities.
Your rehearsed kisses
are dressed in dull razors -
rendering my lips
gauged and coarsely
cracked.
I took a shotgun
to the nightlight last evening
and prayed as I reached for you
through strands of tattered muslin.
I was hoping to grasp
a parcel of your fading glint
and humbly touch
your jagged aura -
I foolishly cut my hands.
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