Conversation with Self

Your umbra is enough. I have installed
an imaginary portcullis on the edge
of my heart. I’m not ready for a close
up. I fear blackheads and untrimmed
hair in facial hollows. Authenticity
of this ache is a hierogram not drawn
in a hurry. We lived without a language,
loved without syntax. Our bodies spoke,
most of the time to ourselves or to those
hungers who seemed happy to have us.
Paradox and plurality are a part of our
processes. This unsureness is a blessing;
know-alls are for moral paladins or
the insane. My nights are as silent as
dramaturgy in books one does not
believe in. Insight isn’t an accident.