they never visit.
at night I rub
ointment on my elbows
my temples
my feet.
I float
in wind that whirrs
too clunky.
another moon-rise traces the cold flesh
my aching abdomen,
I wait for their whispers
they never come.
faltering across webs of blue
cold breast and
blushed nipple.
diaphanous transience
of the thin hide
of the long dead.
I watch myself age,
bitter about it.
