Before I looked up, I knew he was there. Oh so casually I waved, as if my skin had not just contracted. Nervous tension, the reverse of the beginning. If I could have an assurance, wear the confidence in all the places it’s not showing. I hate this waiting. My bitter tongued need for some confirmation. If I put my hand to the air and cup it, I can feel the warmth of flesh pooling there, as if my palm were a flotation device keeping me from sinking down through the floor and earth until I hit a molten sky and evaporate into cinder. Ashes, my face is painted on the inside with ashes. Soft and gray and secret, there was a promise once, a whisper, skin.
what man is there
who claims worthiness
(such things)
yet deflects driven arrows
aimed straight through his holy heart?
Midnight of the Equinox trapped me with dimmed lights and you never held my hand.