___ said ___ is not staying, 
___ left hand still 
warm from the soft of ___ back

___ caressed 
to contour ___ beauty, 
to cup ___ desire.

___ hand brushes ___ 
to the side

Blood scurries from ___ crutch, 
rises to the region of the brain
that snaps ___ to flight:

a fountain pen to record,
a typewriter to draft, 
a macbook to edit. 

___ drinks water, 
drinks water, 
water.

When ___ wakes
___ dreams have passed, 
are past. ___ waits for the hard
to soften. In time 

the words change, 
words change, 
change.

Thank you for reading the latest version of this poem. I wrote its original draft along with a version with the pronouns around April 2025. I didn’t edit either until some time away from them. The last edits happening over these last couple of days.

I’d like to invite you to head over to my [Substack] where I share this poem’s orginal typed draft, the history of edits this poem has gone through along with some notes and comments.

I would love to hear your thoughts and impressions regarding its journey.