This Ache |
by Eric Dean

This ache
This fist that fights the swelling in my chest, whose fingers
Flex and find the softest depths
Of my experience, and there, with immaculate nails
Scratch your name into the muscle of my cardiac walls.
And the blood, coursing hot with your lingering vibration
Passes over the shape of your name there and is reminded.
Slow, heavy beats push it to my toes, the tips of my fingers, and in those nooks
My blood writes poetry about you that I can’t pronounce and
My palms throb with a hunger that I hide in my pockets.
That tainted blood settles in my eyes and
shows your face to me in the texture of fabric and
The patterns of bathroom tiles. It flavors every sound and scent with
Hints of you, and I sweat and exhale your ghost and
Interlock my fingers with it in your absence next to me.

Eric Dean  (Tulsa, OK) writes because it's the only language he speaks fluently.