
It’s neither scars nor scabs;
I scratch my head, I question
the perfection of your skin.
Your eyes still hold me
as your arms once did
but you’d give equal devotion,
the same thirsting glance,
to a sidewalk puddle.
What is it, then, that remains?
Is the answer in the silences?
The static? The seconds between
“Read” and response?
Can it sober up my perceived
meaning of the phrase
I need some time to settle,
but let’s connect soon
to a clean-living reality?
Is my unwavering hope
to be trusted in deciphering
that terrifying expanse of
wilderness between us
when I begin – again – to
bloom in your direction?
How closed are your petals?
How cold is it, still, in
your part of the world?
Will I find anything open,
anything sweet, if I venture out?
I ask the earth in earnest and
in terror, drowning out any answer
before it can speak plainly.
I pick at the sky for particles
that will make up a miracle.
I breathe in deep and beg to be
filled with a different song.
I stay indoors. I wait for the sun.
I know it isn’t of this world;
It isn’t solid, liquid, or gas,
though a closer air descends
down to paperweight my
fluttering, windswept heart
when I stand before you,
when I look in a mirror,
when I claw and bite
and resist surrender,
when I am blown to an edge,
when I am exactly where
I am supposed to be,
when I am anywhere,
anywhere at all.
I am thick with it,
whatever this is
between us.
(2019)