phantom limb;

There’s a feeling that washes over you

Like you’ve espied the soft shell

Of the soul

Or its strings—

The solitons

Are not so sticky

And incomprehensible

Here with her.

­

Here: the essence of being—

The experimental form of being;

In the moment

Nothing else matters

Everything that’s been recycled

Has been reused

And improvised

­

Or burned away

To allow for a new saddle

To be placed on the supernova

Called Here:

With her.

­

On days like today you’re missed,

And on days like today

I don’t struggle in admitting

The patterned blue

Of a beautiful sky

Is of awful taste;—

­

The clouds, just bird shit

On my windshield,

The sun just a red ruby

That’s been fished out

Of a socket

And plugged back in.