Musk Untitled
The weight of your absence bruises my spine,
painfully, I crawl toward your last shadow,
my nose buried in your scent,
lost in your pungent musk,
Your shoes are silent,
your hair coiled against your skin caressing
tendrils of memory,
Shall I wait
or follow the trail of our lingering fire?
Shall our days yet hover,
our nights descend to grass? - owls of Venus can’t answer nor
valleys
where once I lay in
knowing their every turn,
burning highways
piercing, and still calling,
perhaps – a sobbing echo,
the melancholy mercy of tears,
blank windows – eyes, while I take
cruel pillows in my arms, their
silk a distant covering, a veil,
for is there speech,
sound,
the silver thread of words?
Are my ears an emptiness?
a hollow wail for owls and valleys –
- still not answering
and now my feet, my knees, my grasping hands are
silent
silent
silent
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