Night
My subconscious remembers
you, how my insides fluttered
at your voice, your awkward
boyness, my blissful and abstract
wanting. Tangled in sheets
and forgotten lines of old poetry,
I conjure you, take your ghostly
form into my own.
I wake and need to know
that you were real, find
the internet's hard reflection
of your soft existence, untouched
for seven years. The picture here:
a you I broke, promised
something I never had.
I need to know who you are now,
but you don't need any of me. All I offer:
humanity, a gaping maw; hunger,
endless and yearning. Best to leave
flowers at the graveside, walk on.