Unravel

Will every part of me unravel? Seams unroll and drop, trailing into puddles behind me. Will my hair start to fall out, in damp hanks into shaking hands?

I'd give whatever throbs within me for a single taste of your skin; if every time I opened my mouth to speak your name, I'd have been satisfied if a memory of my childhood escaped.

While sleeping, I grasp for your naked foot, your flush cheek, your outstretched hand.

When waking, instead of reaching, I turn away. Turn towards a distant hill, a brightly burning star, the horizon, each equally unreachable.

I search through stacks of yellowing pages and crumbling books for my most secret name, now long forgotten.