Clutching at straws
I clutch at your blouse
hold my pillow
closer to me
pretend its you
mould the duvet
into something
reassembling you.
But it’s
not you.
I suffer
your absence
aching
at the intersections
of our bodies
as we sleep
my thigh across your thigh
my hand upon your breast.
My flesh
screaming for your flesh
as if your absence
burns
enduring
like a saint
the stigmata
of your touch.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem