Dig

Dig

Those fingers scramble
as absent hands, full of no,
make the bed,
mop the floor,
and sweep the sky
in rooms full of folk,
sway, over again,
like they forgot
how to be happy
without you by side,
that's the darkness of hanging
with people who want more
than your name,
to slide
into spaces bare on your frame
without much
consideration for you,
as if your needs are
as impossible
as care at the core,
as if holding, innocently,
is too much to ask -
you become
nothing more
than a being
to score,
mark on a bed post,
figment from a story,
barely digestible,
coiling round
the blankets of woman.
These fingers scramble,
up like vines
underneath a disco ball,
rereleasing,
renavigating,
reinspiring
the williness to continue,
knowing deeper
where to invest,
where to pay time.