I am held in the womb of the forgotten blue, the haze of watery light in the dim heat, I am held here.
Hugging my knees and singing to myself maybe quietly enough not to wake you up, I hope quietly enough not to wake you up, I'm sorry.

I am held in the forgotten blue in my half of the love we wove and fractured out of, in a cold blaze of logic and misfiring defense mechanisms,
inches away your body is a lost continent, I am trying not to be loud or move too much in my grief, I am trying to be small, it's impossible, there is too much of my heart, there is too much now, I will stratify and melt into the creekbed.

I have woven the cut threads of my half of the web across the wound, it is not successfully stitched closed, it breathes air, it sings at night and writes letters.
I will never stitch it closed, but I've made it beautiful again, it is rinsed clean and verdant and cries tears of gold,
All dressed up and standing at the platform, waiting for a train long disappeared into blue evening, tracks inches beneath the water, beneath your eyelids, a dream I wasn't there for.

I saw the whole forest die when I was holding you, I saw all the life that's ever been sprouting and withering and differentiating and sinking back into stillness and oneness, somewhere along the edge of your ear, a lock of your hair, the whole world contained there, the whole story all at once, I could see it, red and amber and perfect and breathing and blooming and already lost,

I know you want to be seperate, I shouldn't involve you, I shouldn't worship your embrace as an altar through which I experience all creation, I shouldn't heave big sobbing breaths into your chest and make contact with god, I know this is exactly what you polarized against

I am ready to dive from the cliff now and swim the dark waters to the place you tried to bring me, I know it's too late now, I didn't know about the drought, I thought there was a creek, I remembered rain here.

Now the sky is a dellusional void, a gap, a dead vulture's feathers, I lay for days in a musk like rotting flowers, an invisible windchime of shagbark cedar,
Taking shape in the fog