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.

A wet dream
is the beauty of twilight - laid bare,
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.