What will be left of me then?

Your hands are tepid.

The flowing motions of your love

have grown still.

The corners of your eyes wilt.

​

I admit I feel a twinge of guilt,

for stealing you from ashore

and leading you by the hand

into my false depths.

​

My intent was only to know

if someone could love me

when bare and unclothed.

​

But the damage is done.

I had promised a diver’s treasure.

Yet under your dismayed gaze,

my flawed jewels hardly measure up.

​

My injured soul

becomes like liquid

spilled from a tipped cup,

that tries helpless

to get up

and collect itself.

​

Like a bird in a forage

with its head bowed

as if deep in prayer,

I am kneeling, pecking

at the barren earth

with feeble hands,

in wonder at what

lost scraps

of self-love

I might still salvage.

​

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