There is a sadness that sleeps
somewhere beneath my skin’s surface.
Coiled in the canopy of my capillaries,
it clusters comfortably.
I have tried tearing it out of my tendons,
talking with reason and thoughtfulness.
It does not dare to drill any deeper;
it just dreams beneath my dermis.
We are a unit of undulations. We
undo each other, unearth understanding.
I can not be without the bastard.
We are like button and hole. Whole.