I miss him-
and not just those hands
that composed lines
misunderstood by language,
yet heard anyway
with a certain lucidness
only a heart could render
mine now reads love
among hurtful things
his, nothing
but it's own screech
punctuated by circumstance
and now,
I stare at my own hands in disbelief
as they lack the expression
of animosity
how impossibly spoken a word can be
when held in the palm
of self destructive poetry
