Tonight I cannot write for my thoughts
linger on distance and a shared moon.
Tonight I cannot write for an image
lingers in the hourglass of falling days.
And so I sit and stare at a blank page.
Too much thought as sacrificed your eyes,
golden like apples I watch them stolen by youths,
made into cider I am drunk by their passion,
hung-over, I am sickened by their distance.
Tonight I cannot write but I can think.
Think of a naked hand,
arm, shoulder;
the shyness of touch,
the impulse of breath,
the longing of silence.
Tonight I cannot write but I can feel.
The nakedness of hand,
arm, shoulder;
the softness of touch,
the craving of breath,
the desolation of now.
For alone I am struck by this realisation;
the acknowledgement that my touch is cold,
pointless, impossible. For without you Iam
an anagram for my own surroundings.
And so I sit and stare at a blank page.
Tonight I cannot write for my words
trace the echo of your silence.
Tonight I cannot write because my hand
trembles from the impact of your touch.
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