something about the tears of oblivion, Brighton

what if these baby-blue gifts from the maternal aegis,

were nothing more than protective

threads

torn from the blinking reality of

assume existence

do you die when I turn my head,

can you feel it,

does it hurt?

interrupted meta-narratives of

meta-understanding and meta-

knowledge\

cannot save me from \the screaming idea

that when I cannot see you,

you are not there.

I am the cross-stitched pattern of flesh

that you are dreamed from and

I have not heard silence since

I kissed you\and the blood in my head

rushed [out of my ears, onto the floor,

and dissolved in the amen filled void

down near the Matterly Bowl

when I cannot feel your skin,

mine shivers

when I cannot hear your voice,

all I can hear is the ringing reminder that I am not the master of reality.

You said I looked good in blue.

and you stitched the green

into my hat.

and sometimes I look at it, and

visit you in the void,

where it still might be silent (but we are probably dead)

for every texture, there is a shadow and

I stitch a portrait of you, using threads that I find

between them.