For long I missed myself

For long I missed myself
I became my skin, my ruined sense of humor
The man you did not kiss
The man you thought you slept with
While the entire you slept with something else

For long I stood between coming and going
I knocked on several doors,
They opened hale and hearty
While my rotten fingers cuddled
The plea of something shut.

I wish for those first few sights
With repulsions unknown
With possibilities doubted
The first evening of my growing old
The dusk of your falsity.

When shall we go to the florist? - I'm no longer awake
When shall my face rest
On the lap I can no longer complete
Will you forbid me then -
If I come with no apologies?


Anonymous said...

It reminds of "To a stranger" by Walt Whitman.
Quite good (both of them).