he was a fleck in a piece of the marble,
of which constantly graces my countertops.
And I would search it for hours on end
with my fingertips,
to find an instance of what I had;
but what I am now missing.
from the nostalgia I’ve realized that
what it really feels like is that I was a doll
used for play, and positioned on his dresser to stay.
now I am nothing but a stigma
or an orgasm…
pleasure, temptation, regret.
I feel myself as a frost that is melting,
but your focus is lacking the
attention you need
to see that I am engulfed in something,
much more than snow and ice.
I am captured by the idea of eternity.
I am captured by an inconceivable concept.
And now I finally understand why.
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