He Wasn't the Outdoorsy Type

A five-day planned camp in the woods seemed like healing

Until it didn't

Until the hate of all my hurt

developed a skin rash

that itched and burned vengeance on successive nights

driving me outside the tent

on day three at 4:05 AM

scratchy-eyed AF

when the degrees fell prostrate

weighty on my medium thick gray blanket

and Mama’s violet-striped folding lawn chair

A recognizable chill

that crept (like most men do)

as camouflage below suspicion

Imperceptible encroachment

Microscopic alterations of atoms

in silken veneer delicate enough

to wrap claws barely felt

across night and numbers of “me’s”

you actually missed

but didn’t wanna admit

Piercing icicles tap my shoulders

in search

of perspiration droplets for transformation

"Are you on some bloomin’ acid???"

Nettles and pine needles

absent moon and pipistrelle bats with

a blend insert of normality thrown between trees

Beholden yearnings of dripping reach

you speak in silence

through early winter embrace

for bodyweight of my missed warmth

taken for granted

that led to access loss

gentle-laden with sweet ache

now turned

stealth meeting in dead of night

and tears in silver frozen streaks threaten frostbite

as I whisper into your space

Baby

where were you then

and why now

why here

Just why

I'm always in genuine awe when you take the time to read my work. I appreciate your presence, your care and attention in bunches.

In a world full of other things to be doing, your "doing this particular thing" is truly valued. Sincere thanks to and for you!

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