The Discreet Charm of Not Knowing

The aching urge
to peel and nibble at cuticles
is fetishism 
that doesn’t know itself–
fetishism to taste your own element.
The beauty of twilight–laid bare,
is a wet dream 
that doesn’t know itself.

The wild swaying of the branches
to the monsoon winds
is juvenile playfulness 
that doesn’t know itself.
A late afternoon dream
is unfinished business 
that doesn’t know itself.
The inner child
is a fading shadow of the past 
that doesn’t know itself.
The unbearable weight of the ticking
and the hollow spaces
are life’s curtain call 
that doesn’t know itself.
The muted voices
and its tender ache
are the full stop 
that doesn’t know itself.