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Pressing ice on either side of your temple,

you shut out the world and the noise and the love.

Stuck in numb desire, you hold your head down

as to not get lost in your gaze upon more than anything but the ground you walk —

as if eye contact with anything more than your own footsteps might undo you,

so, you study the scars of the soil and your imprint on the earth instead.

And others haven’t a single concern about you.

Left unmoved by your frozen skull and frigid withdrawal,

they pass through the same cold air with disregard for the spoiled nature of lust

mistaking your shadow for their own,

their eyes caught by the green shimmer of want,

that living weed that grows between every step,

thriving on scarred soil and shared neglect.

And the floors and the corridors that shape the maze of wanting are never lit,

only illuminated from within, only traversed through touch and smell.

And you can let your hand drag along its cool wet surface,

and you can breathe in, trying to find the smell of something sweet.

And you will find nothing, often,

and you will change yourself until you do;

finding that the shape you mold into is the outline of your own footprint

in the dirt that you once crawled through.

And the lesson you learn is nowhere to be found

but in the gaze upon the dark light in-front of you,

until you see your own dim reflection in the dirt

and realize it’s been watching you the whole time.