Before Closure

all we have is depth
connection anchored in;
deep in sombre tone
wanting nothing more
than the pull –
the reason to addict
ourselves in ache’s
beauty. In my womb,
arms, your pate
withered with meaning’s
search. Indulging
fractured nostalgia, we’re
unsure of how we are. You
gesture – ‘when were you last
happy?’- to which I don’t reply,
immediately. I’m melancholic
for now and such is all I see
in my trace and yours. I fall
cradled in knowing
our tender sores,
caressing their fringe.
On your lips, I read you
‘should be dead’ or have
died, taking me in as I
take you. Opening up
before closure,
I reluctantly rise
to the surface, aware
of intensity’s fade;
such depths no longer
each other’s embrace.
I dry myself gently,
prolonging time
ahead of parted ways.
My melancholy turns
to saudade with a pale
desire to have drowned
with you.

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