Black ink and sunbeams poetry

Touchstone,

your soul, unconstrained,

breathes out, a tempest in the twilight,

sweeping the dunes, across the salt-flats,

close to you

my anger, impotent,

turns upon its head,

my mind, laid down to its grooves

on the left-hand side of our bed, by your side,

turns over, aphotic

your soul, constrained,

strains against itself,

another fragment, another poem,

out of focus and incomplete