Last night I was with you
under a dusting blue sky.
This tryst, like so many before,
with rigid fingers, felt like
inky blots along a page,
a familiar kind of agony.
You’re just a special kind of absence
that lives between stars and lines,
a crater or a hole.
I don’t know how I’d fill you up.
You’re that chill I get,
like a witch passing by my window.
Why not come for a ride?
And how do I find you,
pin you down with definitions,
write your blackness in ink?
You’re like a sun,
collapsing toward its center,
held to spin me in orbit until
I pass through you; dark.
