Eyes know not of sight but tears;
tears know not of cries, but they
have fallen. His tongue hasn't spoken,
it nestles rigidly – freely – between soft edges
of teeth wet with dry meat and ripe, longing thoughts.
I watch from afar every night and too silently cry.
I want to write with the pen you left behind with its
golden cap and golden body, but I do not own a
golden mind, golden heart and call forward the dust.
With aching eyes he groans and moans
about an aching back. I read so from his form –
He unfolds his soul unto his back and bends it well every fortnight.
I am a thief, stealing his growing teeth and pain.
I steal his pain. I absorb his pain. He doesn't know of pain,
He whistles it out through aching lips know not of kisses,
singing with closed eyes.
I write that which I see and in words I hear in the
style of poetry, but I am not a poet.
I watch you from afar every sunrise but
you are gaining speed in the colours of sunset;
I do not approach.
I watch you whimper from afar now but
memorise these louder whimpers,
they are nearing. I am slow but they are painfully fast.
I want to write of you as I dream of, but I am not a writer.
I haven't uncapped my pen for it is golden.
