Atrophied down to chiffon cartilage.
I am a ghost
Or even the empty chair housing a spirit.
It was a fair trade.
He clings to me like a child to his mother’s waist
His face pressed to my hollows
His is the kind that possesses.
Soon, my shape in the doorway will be gravel
Weighted by his fever
I am drained of all invention
Having been masticated by every mouth
We are the glint of my long, black hair
Fanned out like his breath across my back
His is the petrichor, which yields me.
I may have always played the dilettante
But I made use of my butterfly net
Among the blades
A tribute to the one who has pacified me.
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