Salt

Like a mound, I feel,

Piled but on the slide towards a fatal spread

Atrophying…

And in my ears your words,

More salt upon the wound,

Ring - forming a conch of my heart

So nothing escapes

But pours towards my centre

And commits me to this weighty state

Of waiting…

Of crying

But the tears cannot shift enough salt

And my flesh burns

And my eyes

Are now blind.

I await the return of your flesh,

Perhaps even a finger, to reach across and touch

Turning everything back to me again.