The bittersweet hole that is my lack of your perfection that is the ideal me. As in: eros. To know what I strive for. Your skin smooth and cafe con leche, you wake me. I sing and I sing. I sing not for you. I sing for the quiver of the chords, for the creeping vibration of a rising chorus, warm spasms of the larynx. Release. Seeking an expression of godliness. And cradled in the crisp creases of your life line, you told me I could live forever in the fire of your immortal synapse. Until you forgot. I left life in the terror of night, a trip in the crack of a sidewalk; the light of your mischievous eye at my forethought. We should have danced at midnight. I lack witness in you. We should have left together. I lack.