The dripping of ice
is enough to drive me mad--
a wet cave floor slick

with memories is
nothing to swear by. He does
laugh sometimes, but can

not grin. I dream of
the world outside our stone walls,
built right underneath

purple mountains with
misty air or perhaps a
gangling forest

filled to the brim with
busy insects. My growing
mind is filled with things

I am not sure are
real. All I know are reaching
water streams and the

way his eyes perceive
my figure. I am sure more
coves hold other bits

of me, but he will
never let go of my sun
lust hands. I did not

meant for him to get
this bad, and I think the bees
are dying without

his care. Despite my
longing, every fantasy
has my hand in his.

Some days I do not
know which of us is guilty.
I always try to

hold him an arm's length
away, to pretend to find
meaning without him.