In Being a Big, Fat, City-People, Sissy-Ninny

No matter the time, or distance from its start, the event of your departure always seems to find its way home
By means of the fissures dealt my heart, as bread crumbs drop from on-high to its grounds
I have no choice in what follows…

Your subject slips through cracks bestowed by such imprints, and like a riotous leak your return,
Staged one drip at a time, seems hell-bent on drowning my highest senses
In phantasms of fulfillment

Leaving me to wonder if I’m well enough to continue as I am, on my own,
Without the guiding grace of your manifold flesh to direct me through the rising depths
Of personhood, demanding my descent