K. S. Y. Varnam
You enter through the keyhole,
smooth, sweet words
greasing the metal.
You’ve always known
how to shape them to my heart.
I know your face and have missed it.
The crinkle by the eye, that grin
I could nibble on.
It is said that the lidérc
is impossible to outrun;
you do chase me
through my dreams
and I am undone
by the weight of you
sitting on my chest.
But when the rooster crows,
I can see your footprints
as you wander from my side.
Their shape isn’t one I would follow.
You leave dirt on the walls
and little else.
There’s nothing to crave,
only someone to mourn.
***
K.S.Y. Varnam is a queer, neurodivergent, and disabled Toronto-based writer, artist, and editor, as well as the founder of The Quilliad Press. They share a bedroom with two mischievous parrots, Riff Raff and Mr. Wobbles. Their work has been published by several journals, including Hamilton Arts & Letters, Metatron, The Quarterday Review, Breath and Shadow, CRUSH, and Transition Magazine.