i miss the heartless


wandering around,
looking for something
to pour into, to feel through,
to let glide down the sides
like molten gold, like a woman’s
touch, like a moon-lit hot spring.

it all starts with the missing:
the void that needs to be filled,
that sucks in something i can give;
something i can take;
something i can sustain
for a time.

these borrowed hands,
heart, mouth, mind—strong
in their making—leave me
wanting, paint me with a deep
black-blue i love and hate
and barely push through.

Art: Moonflower, by Bo Olsen


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