The Things You'll Forget

That was mine,  
my ganglion,  
where the synaptic cleft disseminated my memory about the white matter  
dwindling from poor exercise because you left  
and promptly shrank from  
the homunculus of your Cartesian theater  
with all bouts of erotic concern.  
   
I was within myself  
only a moment before bisecting mania  
and,    
in the moist air  
embedded within your mind,  
burst in a galaxy floweret  
and gowned your sleep with the swirling white suns    
and entreated the nape's deep-tissue purple lather, absolving  
the nocturnal spell with the nebula mist.  
   
Though you forgot upon waking,  
and the nerve cluster where I fed on adrenaline and blew dopamine bubbles to your fizzing stare  
between occult sand-sparked eyes  
with some sort of lovey-dovey sheen through your hair and ethereal moonbows cupping your face    
ejected me at the last communion  
chained to another man's table  
the concrete against my chaffing skin  
and scarfing a sliver of your carrot in an indirect kiss  
to the rattler of my ribs.  
   
You don't see the man darker than you  
burnt by the lightning waves  
leaping from the collective mind apart from your body,  
as if I  
never was in you.  
As if you never extended my fingertips  
when you felt your breast  

and befell upon the ears of your conscience  

two succinct whispers of my  
foreign soul.