He misses the gemstones
that brought him here.
Lapis lazuli, topaz, tourmaline.
Their crooked path intersperse
with crushed eggshell, rotting bark.
He sees through the glass pane,
palm sweats its own moist shadow:
once-there traces of once-there him.
There is little left but to laugh.
It is a hard game to play:
This love me now,
love me forever…
‘til I vanish.
Like the whole world isn’t listening,
she whispers, just practice.
Who is he to desire more volume?
His head is endlessly empty
except the beat of her pulse,
thrumming just under his skull.
Just practice and he imagines
great cities gleaming,
her thighs glistening,
a place to rest
after the waves sweep
the beach clean.
(cc) Karen G. Johnston
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