Curse

You were like the rescue boat that never came,
The impious chapter of the story
I thread so mournfully, so faithfully,
In order to break this jail of endless comfort.
The bars are cold only in contact with my hands
And beyond I see, not yours, but the disappearing eyeballs
I recognize as my own.
I am like the tempest of the waves you sail on;
I belong to the weedy hands of the dark,
Always groping to find the burned cavern,
Hollow and black, of where your presence
Should have been.