how do i feel without you

My stomach exists

as a waterlogged stump,

sloshing aimlessly to backwash

with no current

for a sooth of continuance.

My eyes are burned out headlights

with no night time direction

for dream lights to go.

It is just too bog hot in here

to look out with a sense of focus.

My aura is an undifferentiated staleness

like a sinus congestion.

I would like my cool

to be of shaded slumber lingering

but no, I only find a motor

racing in idle

into the next stand still darkness.

I am embarrassed after the fact

that time is so precious

when revealed by its absence

and so trivializing

when bickerings are the claims.

We did not play for the fun of it.

I am reprimanded by compassion.

I wish for another day.

Memories are not hauntings

but certainly made of remindings.

There is a Broadway show

in our every face-to-face encounter.

We are show tunes of ourselves

to sing and to share.

We have gifts of ourselves

to freely offer and contribute.

I don’t like absentee days spent apart.

I want ice cream for thoughts,

one dish of a brain

and two spoons shared towards melt.

We are a crop circle of human spirit,

cross-laid upon the other.

I have tears I cannot save

for the shear joy of it.

They have no place of refuge otherwise.

My harp of emotion is heavy

when not playing towards levitation.

Time is outside of our happening.

We are the medium of glacier

facing each other time bound

as the further freezings

layering from a cold front,

when we should be

the coloration factors

combining to yield a soft color sea.

Just a tone from you is sonic

and all is thus synchronized shifted.

I cannot make your cane

walk my many blind miles

but we glide by witness

to each other set free.

We do not have to be

a test for hardness

as if life were a series

of deliberately serious substances.

I am happiest without answers

that are obliged to care back.

Effortless is a boggling concept

to either embrace or dismiss.

I would turn the other cheek

but I gave it my all

as one complete turn.

Now we are bruised

and sadly journeyed that way.

All paintings have hard surfaces

with brush stroke edges

as dried acrylics,

raised up and razor sharp to the touch.

We are in contact, tactilely too close

to the hazards of this as masterpiece.

We are the paradox of a Popsicle

standing separately

sweetly frozen bound

as the two wooden sticks.

For now, I don’t think

we are going for answers.

We are each looking to become

hybrids of surrender from within.

I always have the space of you

even if the now reference is obtuse.

And in the end,

if I am the enemy

clad as “of all comfort”

but given to disguise,

and you are the aggression of isolation

clothed as “the oneness withheld”!

What can we do for an encore,

to end the show of our separation

and refine into this oneness

now held at bay?