the image is
that which will have to pass
for the thing itself.
because i have nothing of yours
but an old shirt,
and there never was anything
ours.
your existence
so far outside of me
you might as well
have been a star
lover
only your shadow
only your shadow
brushing the ground
i pressed my mouth into.
there is blood flooding the stairs of the tower. the tower is myself, citadel. the tower is a prison. the tower is my body. lips and eyes, hands and hair, the tower is built of longing, the tower is built of the resistance to change, the tower breathes in and out and its language breathes with it, slow strides of breath, breath to feed the fire.
the mask is
that this makes
some sort
of difference.