Dry

The air-con blew
and took my warmth away,
stripped the moisture from
my tongue
and the taste of them with it.

And I can feel one body
against mine -
I can feel the borders of my
entirety and all pressed against 
but not given into.

All the pressure,
some of the body; most the mind;
most unrelenting; some divine,
all caught in my throat
and pushed down ever further -

 
Deeper and deeper and deeper
into my own depths,
throttled by my own hands
around my own neck -
discomfort in comfortable emotion,

Until I craft the music, 
touch the light,
shape the cadence of my
strewn together woes, plucked from
my wanting memory...

And I call it a recollection,
a pitiful folk tune to play
for friends far away
or peers poised to stay
awhile and listen.

But to my ears, there’s no music;
there’s no art in my mind, 
my eye, my person.
I am empty, vacant, sterile,
like the cold air.

~ written 6th May 2025