my love, XIII: i ache and ache,

my love,
even in the darkest stories your shadow becomes air, and drinks the bitter mood of earth and water and i lay in this river, this bed of smooth stones of biting history and your hands fill the darkness
of my mouth and you spill into me the  lies of your flesh  and i gather the smooth stones of your dreams of others.

and you drown me in the swift rivulets  of your passing and the darkening sky that you are, fills the
hollows of my cupped hands and i ache for your passing for the chaffing wind to dig into my tender side, and leak my heart into the stream of flowing rocks,

the air of my sight trembles as the night losses itself to flesh and opens the creases of your body and holds you on the precipice and the precipice gasps its hungry mouth for you and moves along the firm curves of your body and you tremble and shake and leak a warm stream of ghosts, for your hands to dream.


and the darkness warms your body and  presses deep into your recesses, till you are full and stretched and you gasp and tatter the light and dark  with your fictions  as you tumble from the light of your need to the consuming arms of my absents,

and the gap that i have become that i fell into becomes the wash of time and carried me beyond the tick of emptiness till im swallowed into the longing emptiness of what resides on the other side of flesh,

my love
 the sound of it all drops sighs and hands into the clinging warmth of lost and  gone. and the memory of my hand stitches history into the stream of not me that you gasp. and i ache and ache.