Red Fate

Your absence is a grey-white field,
vast with clinging nimbostratus clouds
hulking the bulk of what would be an atmosphere.
A pale man, candescent almost
stands coiling over himself,
his body a bulb in the cold, and too dumb to think,
he touches himself to pretend you're there.
Mud-caked and suffering the trauma of 
damaged capillaries, a pair of legs 
protrude from a small bank of soil and blood.
The man gnaws at his limp phallus 
hanging loosely between both legs,
like a dog worrying a bone
just as skin breaks, gore flows
as the man hurriedly suckles
the last of your absence.
You are being watched through tangerine shatters 
of evening light, thinking 'is this my life?
Do I hold it with both hands?'