Return to me

It is a mystery

I am the lunatic

My feet point in the direction

My heart refuses to follow

It is hidden

forbidden

Just beyond my reach

Or at very least

inarticulable

It is a hole

A wound sustained

From which I have no clear recollection

It could heal

Possibly

If I could quit prodding it

Quit squeezing the edges

Dipping my fingers in the pus

Like a milky spring

From where my words originate

From where my art takes shape

The nucleus of my pain

Real and conceived

The real reason I can never love

Truly

Or be loved

Wholly

A wound

I cannot let heal

A spring

I refuse to let dry

A pain

I cannot ignore

A hole

I will never fill

All for

Words

That forever return