This Is How I Tell That No One Is Listening Anymore

I keep feeling the ghost of your hand

the specter of feeling, a pit in my palm

black-hot emptiness and a freedom

which never emancipates

She continually walks away

I think of the womb when we take showers together

this is how I know I am meant to be a monk

Beads of water lay a oubliette  on my face

masked only by your shadow

the cloak of night

drawn tight over voluminous light

I am dancing with you like

catching fireflies, on my back

looking up at the sky

bright lights surrounding,

darkness and light both become impending

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