Going on, I don't know,
how many years?
Since we saw each
otherwise, how could we have known?
How could we have seen beyond each other's eyes if we'd never
strangled what was, for us
All that was. For us
all, that is,
For us, no more
than fingers pulled back from a hot skillet's handle;
No more than scratches on my back.
I can't see,
Don't even know, if you left
I can still feel the warmth of blood.
Searing my soul to ashes. Since when did the soothing