, , , , , , , , , , , ,

A nightmare in which I am a toilet & he but an empty mask

I wake at one a.m. I have been dreaming not this but something beautiful. At first. That I am holding him again and all my senses are sprung. I can feel the silk of his flesh, his breath, the strength of his arms around me. I exclaim – “I’ve missed you so much!” & then I look up. It is still him but he is stone, an increasing presence of only bones and distance. The horror surges in. I need him and he is there but he is not there. He doesn’t need me. There are a million lost cells between us. I wake myself to weep. & make art. A forest scratched up. This toilet suspended upside down. The garb of an ancient mine worker. My eyes turned inside out. The terror of these nightmarish symbols depicted becomes, somehow, solace. Moving within grieving. Two years. Three months. No time at all.