In Between the Leaving
In between the leaving and the already left.
There is a sliver, festering.
Though I am uncertain if it is
Festering of hope,
Or if it is festering of double entendre.
I imagine the sliver is orange, or maybe green.
Something bright enough to be seen,
But looked over again and again.
I can’t ignore the infirmity,
Of this foreign piece within me.
I wait, anticipating a turnover.
For it to come to a head so I can pull it out.
Except I only moor it in further.
It now becomes organ-like.
And I can’t see its brightness,
Nor retract it.
I can only feel it’s heartbeat within mine.
I can only hear it sing, when I let go.
Somewhere between the leaving and already left.