There is a wind that seeks the crevice
under my heart
the way insects file at night
beneath a doorway
It’s edges are rough, it slits
the cords. It trips my steady breathing.
When it comes there is no one
I can trust
It seems, at times, I have designed
too well this vision of you.
I cannot survive your eyes
when they are scarred with a need
for some lesser form of love.
I admit to this conceit.
And though you will not accept it
You love it nonetheless
It is just like you. Our desires
will always be kept sharp
by a kind of perversity. A need
to be each forever alone . . .
Its colour is violet, like lips
that have been smashed at night
or robbed of blood by lack of breath.
The wind I was speaking of does this.
I can feel it now.