December:
Let’s be delicate
together-speak only in
whispers made of
glass that creaks if we open
our mouths too wide.
Because we’re that fragile;
let’s muffle the
sound of the questions that go
unanswered lately.
Let’s play games with each
other’s
fingertips-barely touching because
(you, I)
we can’t be real- I’ll trace my name
on your skin and
you’ll pretend not to notice.
You’ll pretend I’m
used to being this
dangerous; used to
weaving Hope on looms
of carved smoke. We
won’t say it (out loud), but
somehow this night
has tangled our sinew
together in pulsating
knots that will break
come morning.
February:
I pass moments on
frozen sidewalks where
the wind burns itself
onto my cheeks- such
impudent things, out
bare at such an hour-
and wonder if you
remember afternoons
spent memorizing my
face with your mouth.
Your mouth was much
kinder to me, then.
In these moments on
those sidewalks I let
Streetlamps braid
shadows into my hair,
let the wind breathe
for me, like you used to.
These flashbacks are
not polite in public.
I stamp them with my
heels into the muck
left by boot-soles on
unwashed floors of trains
that take me home.
Businessmen roar in my ears.
Old women creak.
Babies sigh. Music blares.
More People. More
unrelenting cement.
It is too quiet in my
head without you.
The click-clack of
souls drives me steadily insane.
August:
I wonder if the sun
looks the same
on the other side of
the world.
I think that I just
miss you, lately.
That’s all.
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