No new holes
on my body
not one open
wound or exit
visible

My weight
remains constant
as my moods disperse and stagger
under you

But I have all the faith of fools
that I'm the victim of loss
In a day past freshness, I still
curl with the wetness of the
bleeding flower's puncture currents
In dew
staggered by the expected
In dew
the inventiveness of certainty
In dew
the madness in the stars
In dew

Obstructed
only by the
subtle, stinging
absence of you
absence of...