My dear, my lonely, my giving not mine

You dear, you lonely.  You’re bleeding the photos
of me, and not gently.
Our human bones locked our
preferences, our humors.
Not gently, we gelled differently to ‘heart’, to
dryness, to violence.  In arcs, too,
my greenness, and bodies of
water, and automobile stink.
You’re here, your face a mottled light.
My face a spring or mire.