touching /this/
of all my imaginings,
secrets held in a distant palm.
And you, my careful, perfect one,
beseeching, graspingstealing secrets that I did not own.
Remember me, in dimness, standing.
Hold me, with precision, in light.
Rescue me, with yearning, bright and unreal,
in this time of fragile inconsequence.

I touch with nervous, half-formed fingers,
This, my shocking truth misunderstood.
Fragile, frail.
Peeling, breaking away,
fragments of stone, rendered with words,
impermanent.  Secrets,
that should have stood perfect in grace,
now flailing in this unnumbered light,
this unknowing.
Shattered, shattering,
and I, standing stark in gray,
seeking, desperately, some horizon.

Please, my silent one, remember me.
For I, in so much need,
have abandoned you.
And myself.
Abandoned (selfish abandonment)
futures and destinies and certainties
that were mine and not my own,
leavings, debris of expectations that were self-fostered.
Remember me, so that I might someday remember myself.
Hold me, so that I might not be alone.
Rescue me, so that in my blindness,
the sacrifice might be worth something,
something more than secrets stolen
and futures lost,
something more than abandonment.

I desire, haunted, the dawn.
I crave, unsatisfied, remembrance.
These sheltered gifts, bestowed,
I cling to.
This, I touch with so much reverence.
These, my imaginings forgotten.