He thought that if he ran far enough
he could leave me behind.
Stupid man! Doesn’t he know
that you cannot run from a feeling that
clings to every individual
strand of hair on your head, every
bristle on your toothbrush.
It lurks in the light
that a foreign sun leaves on
an empty bed.
It dwells in naked fingers,
in the lonely moment
before sound and day begin.
It makes its nest in that cavity
beneath your chest, where it
squirms and sickens,
beating its wings against
the cage of your ribs
at all the wrong times.
He thought that if he ran far enough
he could escape love.
Silly man! Doesn’t he know
that you cannot live, when you are only
half a soul?