Phantom limb

We're running out of outlets.
No current; no connection.

Everyplace is crowded; I'm losing
you in a sea of faces,

in the jostle
and hum. I did after all

close my eyes,
put you on a raft in my mind

while I stood waist high
in water,

and give you a gentle push.
Just enough

to take you millimeters away,
then let the current do the rest.

I feel you out there still;
a severed limb that itches,

an unfinished thought,
an ellipsis,

a name attached to no object,
something terrible and abstract
that occurs

to me randomly in deep
sleep or moments of joy,

and it's then I realize
I didn't stand still;

we're floating parallel,
diverging slowly, so

slowly, so wet
and distended:
a death that could be

mistaken for birth.