For Foucault

S.t.u.m.b.l.i.n.g

1:00 in the morning,
too ragged to sleep,
too wasted to curse,
too full of you to lie,

you’re not finding me.

four months past and
I mourn it now.
Delayed reactions sting a little longer—an
almost biting touch

stumbling to get over it
can’t even name you yet
it’s not pretend…I know.

the hardest story to tell is the one you cannot claim

still stumbling as you walk
still stumbling in my words
still stumbling

it’s not pretend…I know.