Alone. But Comforted.
You lay in a pile of billowing cotton. Sainted
white piled and pulled up over your head. I struggle
to find my place inside this scene. Orchestrating
a bare-assed dig. I twist and turn. Contorting
my body into a shadow-shape. Echoing you,
I settle into the background. Not quite conformed.
(Not quite confirmed.) But balanced
enough that I just might pass as a puzzle[d?] piece
of this night’s moonless dream.