I write for an imagined reader,
An immanent being
Inside the words, within the writing.
I write propelled by a longing
For someone who cannot exist,
Living and martyred by this longing,
Irrational to persist and nurture
What cannot be brought to fruition,
Caressing an illusion,
A shadow swiftly passing
Into the fading light of dusk,
There and not there,
Appearing in its very act of disappearance.
And yet, for all of its agony,
The poem cannot hold her tongue
Nor dry away its fervent blood,
So I write, a whirling mass of solitude
In a sky inhabited by the whiteness of silence,
And the suffering heart goes on
Suffering, alone, untouched,
Fired by who? Fueled by what?
Eaten by its own desire to give and touch
And the ghost breathing inside the words
Promising the enigma of a human touch.