Sonnet To A Plummeting Lover Poem by Lynsey Jenkins

Is this what I meant: the glittering
pavements rising, the fictions
of your breath, my face
once arranged, then fleeing away
each nostril, each frightened kick
returned - now thrashing grip, quaked
by clutch nor ardent plea? Is this how
wind ravels your vices from me?
Or clasps us finite, as a sea
veers our ear and turns away?
You glide on disarray, your shape
mocking: at such pace beyond the now,
bending to memory, what lingers
of our sleep, when, at last, we wake?