Vague has its own vibration.
Loneliness likes to hold hands.
Your eyes are a darkroom
where negatives seem to transcend
every pinprick of light
that I try to sneak in.
Damn this throbbing in my head;
The quivering edge of the high note
hangs like a bracelet on the bone.
I'm huddled, small, in your sweatshirt.
And, I just want to go home
so I can build myself a partition
between you here and you gone
to keep myself from looking backward
and keep moving on.
A belated Flipside poem for Open Link Monday at Real Toads