It’s Your Window

I find you, grieving, knelt beneath the window you say your soul escaped.

The dishes are unwashed, caked in old needs, when you ate,
when you thought you had a body and it was deserving.

Now you say you have no body. Like a dud seed
that never came to be, it’s a husk you leave
in the dirt of dead things walked over by heavy feet.

You write your name;
it is a habit you cannot break from, as if you must practice
or else forget, and fade.

There are ten thousand reasons for me to let you lie,
let you delegate the devils, and mount them your walls

as though trophies of your sorrow.

It is a hollow love, you and I.
Tracing one another’s outlines in the snow,
catching one another’s faces in the lamplight glow,
dragging our backs in the darkness,
rolling dunes in the black.

Slowly, you slip and slide,
as a pyramid determined to stake your claim and never die

you lie, you lie,

you brace the tide of my cries, curl my wrist into your fist
and perish in the anguished silence

that will never touch the god you say never bore you up.

You are a fool if ever there was one, drinking from your lonesome
golden cup, rubies glinting like spilled blood.

You are at home by the window.

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