I am no particular kind,

hinged in the retrospect of other movements.

Damaged, some may say, by the lack of my own peril.

 

I am left

in the evaporations –

where a bare foot meets a wooden floor,

peeling the press

of a child running into summer.

 

I am the hair

falling from your scalp, that convalescent

each day united

with a disappearing will.

 

Nausea;

a movement too close to say,

behind your eye,

and the need to stay silent – no charging wit,

no defeat.

 

I am falling down the rip of you,

untidy, unwanted,

unable to mop away.

 

There are no lines drawn,

no rhyme to measure with a kiss,

nor comb away with love  -

a form diseased with instability.

 

My head is eaten by an obtuse Hell,

the spindle,

I do not quite know.

 

I grab and grab,

seeing something coming

from the corner of my eye – incomplete,

tired,

a fickle crush.