were nothing more than protective
torn from the blinking reality of
do you die when I turn my head,
can you feel it,
does it hurt?
interrupted meta-narratives of
meta-understanding and meta-
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,
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