Yours, Untitled Poem.

At last, you find a
new hair colour, or a husband.
You plant a flag
on a hill, or a bed in a bedroom,
words in a poem.

You look back and think
"I have done it at last!"
under your wide patch of blue.
Your fingers touch, and you behold.
"I have found you. I have you."

This, right here, is where
the paint chips off the wall,
the land floods,
language loses its meaning, and you,
you are left gasping for air
as a rustle slips politely from your embrace.

This is where they stand
wavering before your little eyes.
"No. You are mistaken."
They murmur, smiling slowly.
"Visitor, you know
it was always the opposite."