when mending and wresting are one action

[mallochai]

simple words
I miss you, I love you,
come home to me, soon. 
endlessly complicated in their meaning.

both of us are where we have chosen to be -
nine hundred glaring miles between.
now we grow restless in these floating cages we have built.

the weight and substance of your physical body, pressing me
against the door-frame, is a fixed point in my memory.
but memories are naturally vaporous
and not meant for picking locks.

we are displaced, jarred, by the swapping of gentle wounds
sutured closed by glass-eyed jackals.
the ink that I bled like a hungry leech
from your unshakable arms
drops from my fingertips in distorted splotches,
drawing a trail back into the copse of lemon trees
where we discovered each other in the sunlight, back
to your encircling strength and sweet fragility
to your pouting lip and mournful umber irises.

I remain steadfast in my journey forward to a better, stronger me
but I snag a little of my skin with every step that I take away from you.
even as I glance back over my shoulder, to see if you are watching,
a stitch pulls free - my heart slips a little looser from where I've kept it.