Thickness

I can't seem to think with you in front of me

Trying to understand my ribaldry

All the words I say and those I mean don't have a place in your psychology

Im afraid I have to be away for a little while.

I can't remember what I wanted. I can't remember why I feel this way, seeing the pain in day to day minutes. It's getting thicker. I feel your night like you can't feel it, the strange inside where your conscious is fraying. And I can't tell you why, but I'm crying for something missing, all my dreams in a hole in the ground where you love me, a porcelain figure sculpted for things in heaven, things I can't see while I'm in the heaviness.

A grave for the flowers of summer.

And you're trying so hard to feel me. But we're too apart for confrontation. My levels of black pining, the thoughts on which I'm dining. The mica layers of my lack of dignity. You hold out your white hands for intellect while mine are dripping with poppy red.

When I'm feeling the fog like you can't feel it and I'm crying for a diamond that I'll never wear, in the hollow of my unloved womb. In the shadow of my imagined tomb. Where I'm mourning for a baby I'll never have,

I can't seem to think with you in front of me

Trying to understand my blatant resistance

Where you can only count the distance

From which I sail away.

Where I have to say good bye for a year or a day.

To the lamb of your willing body. Waiting for me to shed some founded principle of my sin, to let you in. To burn your heart on a heady altar of things I used to be, and times where you remember me. But I can't sacrifice a white fleece snow, when mine is black as smoky coal.

When I'm struggling for words that I can't understand. Struggling for the ghost of a lingering little hand. I've disbanded from a reality, where your presence was all the need meant to be. And I'm falling in that place that you can't find. That hole in the ground. Where my mind is leaking, speaking, shrieking for a mother's strangest love.

I know its not there. I know you can't know. I can't think with you helplessly in front of me. Hanging on to the thread of my pale confusion, because I am miserable for the fusion of myself and the murky red form of a child that exists in the warm unborn

When I'm feeling the fog like you can't feel it and I'm crying for a diamond that I'll never wear, in the hollow of my unloved womb. In the shadow of my imagined tomb. Where I can't ask you to weep for a child that I'll never have.

For the blood of my heart, for the murder of a child I'll never have.