I Do Not Understand You Anymore

Are you tiptoeing into a box

Of gradual incomprehension,

Or were you always there

Licking your paws,

With the papillae of your madness?

It is me, isn’t it?

The box has abandoned

My fading vision.

I feel not the wet tip

Of your poetic nose

Or the slight suggestion

Of your searching sniff.

I understand not the tumultuous words

Of your little tragedies

Or the fantastic images

Of your vivid dreams.

Aimless alliterations escape

Fingers rough from

Washing you away

And I sit

Several miles away from

Your midnight softness

Dumb; screaming

For you to snarl

For you to turn.