in peace, we were what some might envy: in lust,
we were just what we could be. walking slowly
late at night, the body's urges growing—
i leave the dishes dirty, i let the dust
pile itself along the ridges. just once,
i cried. and then i left, against your grain,
and built my dream: a scene without a frame,
the stage unset gives nothing away but dust.
the walking begins, a trial of time and pain
to prove the thing i lost is really gone.
my feet may etch the path they will, since you
aren't here to keep me from it. what i gain
in distance is lost in blood: from veins it's drawn
by guilty needles that shriek their own debut.