Leftovers

Let me be a part of your
existential crisis.
Two of my very own
martial fingers
will thrust through the yoke
that joins you to this world
where your feet meet the ground
in Holy Gravity.

Tell me what’s eating you
and I will meet your weakest
with my cellophane
and wrap my limbs around you
till we are simply
leftovers.

Wash my feet in wine
while you try and sleep in tears.
Your truth pours into me
while it eeps out of you.
I will try and serve it back to you
but you can see it’s just me.
You can see, it’s only me.

(From April 2016)

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