A praise to my love?
I dream of eyes that see only me, lips that kiss only mine, and hands
that touch only my skin.
But a true praise?
A praise of loneliness.
Why worship the hurt that slows me, the eyes that are blind to me, the
lips never kissing mine, or the hands that are out of touch?
I rather praise emptiness-the hollow darkness ebbed in the off color of
burning flesh.
The torrential outbursts of salt tears falling from bloodshot eyes to
the tongue that cleans the wounds in an attempt to heal the body that is
me.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Miraman, in the year 342 AF.