It’s What I Do

© Sergii Moscaliuk

Oh God, I tend to grasp,
control, hold on, as if I
could heave a lasso and pull
You close, corral or snatch,
tether You like a filly on a lead
while I stand front and center
directing you in circles and
threatening the wildness out of You.
I do this to myself. Then what do
I possess? An awkward inflatable
that drapes across a basement floor,
airless. Forgive me. It’s what I do,
when I feel the loss of You.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Maximum of 400 words or 2000 characters.

Comments on may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.