A Work in Progress

The times I try to write him down
  as a poem
My fingers try to remember how to stop;
  fabricate his hand in mine,
do nothing more.

Rather, smear writing,
  try to call it
poetry;
scatter shards of soft skin
  under baggy eyes,
and draw lines in the confetti--

We allow our toes to touch,

briefly.
  
Permissible necessities
   allow us reminiscence,
only.

He is not a complete thought.
  
Abridge him to avoid details,
   but have the audacity to attempt
at attaching him to singularities

atypical,
and unripe,
like:

The smell of his sweatshirt;
  watered-down coffee,
let it linger,
 
but not the sharp curve of his collarbones;
  carve him from the small of his back
then hide him.

Long and thin fingers
    holding vertebrae together,
and the taste of salt in wide eyes;
    trying to avoid confronting
conclusions,

but not the deep husk
   in his voice-
gravel scrapes

from tripping: safely.

I cannot dream him whole,
yet.
  
A fragment to me,
rather, by me;

write him only
  as vague metaphors,
wavering- I cannot

write more.

Denouement leaves him
as a work in progress:
  uncertain.

incomplete.