lamentations
I've grown accustomed to your strange face,
languid eyes and long fingers.
It's going to be hard to break away, fears
of being alone ping pong through my body,
Want: to be in a field of grass, the thin
blades brushing against fine hairs
on my arms. Sun bleaching my eyebrows,
tickling my eyelids. I imagine myself alone.
There would be room for poetry, at least.
The earth my mistress, the sun my father.
Go, into the woods, my aching chest full of nerves.