Cheltenham: CHS Facade edition with preface

#112
It’s company of flesh and blood
I need, your blonde head beneath,
pillows scattered around us like
confetti, memories of loneliness
suddenly quaint as “thou,” your
feet in the air like hung mobiles,
all the thousands of words left
behind in throats overtaken by
cries (awe before near-extinction),
but you are not here, you are
just a lack, something scrawled
on a series of sheets, useful
only to tell me that words have
holes in them where nothing fits.
61