I try to prepare myself for loneliness.
Balm my skin with empty air,
a bed without touches,
fingers only finding themselves.
It flows over me, a frozen molten thing
There is no answering jump of electricity
no spark beneath my skin,
though memory leaves echos there.
Encase my heart in this,
that the electric echos will be averted
and the stillness deadened,
the waves of it averted
to leave other shoes aching in the stillness.
Gentle and close my eyes,
for hey are heavy and seek out
the hotness inside me from which they spill
into cheeks like voids,
like falling past sensitive event horizons
past my lashes.
No inch of me can forget, and so,
none of me is stilled.