the other months beyond, lone stanger

i must of missed you in october, in
november, this skip of december
i would dump fromage, butter, rose petals
and the moist ivory of that june lit memory.

but missing you is incomplete, it needs violence and
alteration, and facebook on thursday to sunday;
lastly, missing you needs me being missed by you.

it's the amber of played out daylight through to
a skinny neck night that lingers like memory,
like missing, it's the wrists before your hands
like the risk before my lips and the words i
risked to say,

that night, you know, i leaned.


your hands planted on mine sometime, there was fervour, jungles of light, a lip of melting where i strained against my awkward poetry, not knowing
if the very moon of my longing would throw itself kamikaze against the last cliche.


i hoped it was sunday for good, awkwardness and all, petals of you rinsed in lamp light, soft, enduring against the after all...linked like text messages we have suffered the other, i

like you,

have remained on sheets, beneath a halo, or out of touch, one seance from me remembering that you're a ghost, though memory is stronger than death, less kind that, than you: whispered by, lone stranger.