Rorschach Tears

I am lost without loving.
Lost.
I cannot love child,
man or mankind.
I cannot even love dog,
and yet
I love dog more than myself.

My woman has not returned.
I have been faithful to all, but myself.
My fingers chatter at the cold absence of touch.
My body burns,
with chills and desert fever.
My eye’s mirages see
descending staircase
into a room with no windows
and no doors,
only the end of staircase.

Paper staircase,
lifetime of pencil tracks,
treads and cliff-like risers
carpeted with rolls of self,
unfurled flag of no allegiance,
worn threadbare, concave
by the belly, knuckles, knees
punctuated appropriately
with Rorschachs of tears.

No paper, pencil, exit,
except for the vision of your hand
reaching down or up toward me.

I will rise from this slow falling
if you will reach into it for me.