He hears my words in a dream.
Distantly.
Free of
rigid lines,
unraveled from ill-defined knots.
And stirring like dirt in the rustle of gold foil.
Stoking my ghosts from the whispering air
into flames,
he catches in vain the rising steam
amidst the charged fire.
Like a possession.
Embers in waiting.
But like love,
time and again,
they burn in shadow and
smolder without noise.
He needs to gather my molecules
and culled in a lidded vault.
To stow on a shelf.
When I just
need to see him just as he is,
no more than he used
to be.