A lost piece

Long at last against the glass-

the peaked face of winters' gasps-

phantom hunches of frostbit dew,

against the urgent morning mass. 

 

With the snow came the tear,

the wound in half the center bare-

supple soft meat oozing crimson,

in which my body basks towards morning glare. 

 

I long for you, I would assume,

though your presence does not exist,

though you are the figure-eight,

in which my imagination persists,

 

Perhaps the magnetic field,

of overlapping universe,

would compell my atoms to revere,

 you across flooding mass of multiverse. 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741