like me,
every piece within you
has ridden the vim
of an interstellar burst—
interesting, then,
that we now would
sooner marvel
at this:
that every blush
recedes;
all enthusiasm
dims.
*
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
could only be
the inverse
of the one thing
that we're missing.
