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Your email address will not be published.

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.