encore.

XX, it is only a matter of time. Imagine the cold thunder

    of the clapping, the clapping as the velvet curtain is drawn,

the folding of wings back to warm body,

    body dipped into free fall, falling like a blistering missiles

upon a careless (sweet innocent) world. An explosion

    rocks the Eden of (y)our engraved memory,

(I am) a devourer of (your) open sky,

    your weary pris(m/on) of sacred light.

You ache into your inquiry, a sting that

    proliferates into my own brittle bones—

I am hooked on an I.V. of our intensity. You take your final

    bow, perennials spilling on the vinyl with their

cat-claw thorns. Your breath somersaults out, whisper

    Thank you to those who love you. Thank you for

your patience. Thank you for your support!

    you scream to them. The audience

sees and calls for you again as your steps retreat,

    and they love what they see, but they do not love you.

XX, I can feel your skin melting, spitting truth into

    this embrace—you are holding me like it's the last time.

I watch you in their spotlight. I know we are

    clichéd into my lightless camoflauge.

XX, your hands kiss my fingertips goodbye,

    you pull away again and I am cold. XX, you know it.

Their approval will always dominate

    (y)our reality.