like me,
every piece within you
has ridden the vim
of an interstellar burst—
but the whole
of us now
sooner marvels
at this:
that every blush
recedes;
all enthusiasms
dim.
*
Don't blame
Narcissus
for what
narcosis
did.
*
All love exists
in a bittersweet stasis—or else
swarms
with the ghosts
of our pathos
and ignorance.
Something left
undone will breech
the surface
all at once,
the way an old taste might
return to us unbidden.
The shapes
our mouths make
in the dark
when we kiss
can only be
the inverse
of the thing
that we're missing.
