Dear Lover,

Lover,

I'm sorry I haven't called

(here comes the but because)

but if we talk I will hear heat

radiate from your breath,

mirroring it back through densed fog.

I'm sorry that I lay

next to you, not

prodding putty flesh to mold

beneath petting finger padding;

it springs or crawls beneath

my touch, a volted fence.

I'm sorry every time

I have left you too soon.

You should poke to stirring my

alone thoughts

but then you'd wade

in them, a silty pool.

You should shelter me,

behind me,

soaking chill through

dead skin brushing

salt-dry tears off

bloated-muted brow, but

You don't sense

finality

in our meeting and only

skip

surface glass.

I tap,

too water-muted quietly,

on the other side.

I scream,

releasing only air-reserves.

I flail

with kicking-trained gambas and

embrace myself tight.

I sink.

I'm sorry I couldn't sing

my goodbyes, my mouth

crowded choking-full

with the rightest of words,

Your smell will fade like

deepening night-darkness.

I miss you like a train.

-Cohort