ramblings about Dali and hair

One-shot ranting about someone, and the only vaguely romantic poem I have ever based on an actual person I knew. It isn't about love, but the fear of touching them, and the uncertainty. It's terrible.

Many months ago I stopped seeing 

the shape of your existence

a magnetic field around you

upsetting the order of my organs

we are treading water in the dead of night

in the middle of an ocean

(the ocean called seven)

on the cusp of making love

heads just above the crest

you blink too long

greyness  ferments in the dents 

of your collarbones

and either side 

of your nose

of another's ravishes too hard

dubious

translated in claws of your finger-tips

on the other side of your scars there is

a thrumming 

that sings through the pads of my fingers

as if you were living.

there must be colour somewhere inside of you

and so I will peel away your bones

and hope I can find you somewhere

I am sitting in an opera house

       willing myself to scream

at the concertmaster

Author's Note

This was written at 5am and never corrected. I've not been happy with it at all and I hate it so much, but it is personal. It was more just me painting in my head and typing as it [didn't] flow(ed).