He is the proverbial tree
Which takes root
Inside of me

Hears my moan
Like broken water

He is the one
Sometimes
& others naught

For laughter mocks
In small rooms of the deceased
Huddled close

Now i love him
Never myself love
He who never

Loves

As well as i
Do

Vow & take
To him
As a wiry dog
Astray

In search of collars,
Owners, & food

But i am not the subject
For i am little
Only

He

Who takes small candles,
Lights them continuously
For only that abandoned hope
In the form of Him,

Hollowed out,
Begging
For my hand
Arduously

As if looks hold
Him deeply
Magnified forever
In little thought

He is all i want
He, the champion of small children
Of sticky unsweet divorce
Himself
Inside
This origami memory
Its folds opening

At inopportune moments for farmers
Awaiting rainfall followed by drought.
Moments
When all is well
Turned sour, forgotten for Him,
Thus overturned only temporarily
By myself

As i lie alone
In restless unrest
Being followed
By the antics of
The sun chasing the moon.

But i am not the subject,
At least now now.
Never love me,

For he is the champion of unsold granola
He, on the border now of a dream
Travelling by train
elsewhere
Never to me

He is going now,
Deeper into those folds
That never let me forget
One’s profitability
& expected demise.

A lost visitor
Missing a matching
Shoe, well-worn
With a reverence
For His entire life,
Its secret topographies.

He is going now.
For he is not the subject.
Only
We.