A certain depth of solitude rains a casual existence in your presence.
The hope of a battered niche no longer cranes it neck and yet,
I still take careful steps.
When the last breath tornadoes through
and asks me of the yellow tail,
I reply with a shallow stagnation.
Do not question my ability to love, do not point bones and assume the knowledge
is there.
Still,
Weathered yearnings continue to seep through drains.
Single droplets of lively blood; iron, pungent
falter onto your shoulders.
And all I can produce is a stare.
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