I find myself shaken, shiver-lips maddened
by the skeletal ghosts of you in photographs
not far from now. I awoke to each night with
the same disability to grasp temperature,
my hands dried and old with the age of
how we've gone. The talk of your skin—
and as verbal as it may be— reeks of lies
and held itself in worth of king. Sometimes,
but of most times, I speak with no words,
and listen with no hearing— like that night
of small stars, and how we'd put our heads
together, and together is no lie, it is
the only thing true in our alcoholic slurs and
never waking-ups.