In her eyes, you will become the city I live in. There are some hours in the day
when I do not think about love.
I mourn them when I'm supposed to sleep. I drown them in rivers and lakes.
Your face floats
an endless ship, bottomless and rusted with my love.
She will wonder, and piece together your naked body when she looks at me.
Knowing I will know more, always more, always deeper, underwater.
She will understand that I see from the perspective of a drowned madman,
with madman’s glowing eyes, lighting up the way of death and loving.
The perspective of lamps in the darkness.
I have traveled and made paths on your skin, have carved with my feet, the tunnels everyone will follow.
This woman of yours will feel my hair on your pillow, planted and growing wildly, surrounding you at night, rippling — waving — whirling.
She will watch you swim the kelp forest of me
in your dreams, tangled in blue sheets, gasping.
Her hands will dry your side of the bed in the morning, digging to get me out and
her every good morning will be an exorcism of me; every smile a curse, every kiss a shudder of fear.
I will grow in your pillow— you will drown without a light.
The bed will always be wet.
Kelp forests will always grow.
I am the parasite she will scratch at, pulling me out from underneath her skin.
I am that love, that ghost.