i always thought
she loved me.
not in a romatic, trivial way,
but in a natural,
blind,
almost normal way.

i remember lying in bed,
the blankets chilled by her omniscience,
her love bathing me and
foaming over me and
breaking around me
like her water slaves.

her love seemed secretive and forbidden,
a nighttime affair.
when the yolk broke and
the light and
the heat and
the life began
she would vanish.

her dissapation into dew nevevr frightened me--
her tendrils would find me again because
she loved me.


it hurt her to see me in the day,

a faint glimmer of herself
pale and
transparent and
far away.
i knew she was frail, but
she loved me.

sickness followed her as she followed me

compacting her tightly until

the dark finally consumed her.

i looked for her,
waited for her,
cried for her.
even her love marks did not comfort me;
fingers and toes seemed too human a replacement.

that night came the first hollowness.

when she returned she was cold and
foreign and
tangibly different.

and i was left sitting below her
gazing into a reflecting glass.