Carpal bones project with a sick joy in feeling small
Wrap your hand around and notice the room within the width
The hold has grown so that contact is no longer necessary to move my feet
no longer analogous to mountains
More like the wind they shift when summoned.
With the kind of malleability that can only come from being broken,
I must accept that while winds may advance, mountains change their course
I'm called to the pit to play an unfamiliar composition
with an instrument I've never before held
Wrists break under the weight of being a novice
in an orchestra of eyes all too knowing
And I can't make them listen,
Or maybe I can't make myself heard
Because there is a difference.
You put on the layers I take off
You shiver, I flush
My face begets the commencement of a rainbow,
betraying any coolness of composure, and I wonder if there is a correlation
between our temperatures and temperaments
You demand but you don't know what you want (except for me to
turn off the air conditioner)
It's the claim without the pick up,
an unspoken ultimatum: don't come
come too close, but let me into your bed
In the morning I wake sticky
Not a sexy sticky, just a sweaty sticky
While the stars were making their rounds,
a window must have closed– No. It must have shut.
Air stale, covers compromised, last night already a memory
I reach out, with expectation like sunrise,
but a deflated glove doesn't grab back
I blink a few times, registering the significance of flaccidity
My spirit depleted, now unnerved and unsure about
the plan for breakfast
Walking away you leave no comma, no colon, no ellipses
For all the warmth that pools in my cheeks,
it is you who scalds with your minimalist approach
You are not Frank Stella.
And with that, the door closes– No. It shuts.
To make a mockery out of this would be to bump a bruise
that I didn't mind getting; I was having too much fun falling
to see the truth in black and blue–
I didn't anticipate this chill.
I never got to know how you take your eggs.
I'd bring a lot to the table,
I'd even bring the table cloth
But furniture proves too fixed for you.
You write in pencil and you won't sit down.
In the morning your hand didn't grab back,
and this defines the terms of the debate.
It's concrete enough for me to lose the metaphors.
I say, with a bluntness that can only come from being hurt,:
If this doesn't hold meaning for you,
get out of my bed.
the crumbs under your cushions, the tears you didn't let fall
receipts, regrets, writings in the margins
your bruises and the how behind them
what you owe and to who
the ice you couldn't break through and that which wouldn't burn
what you couldn't chew, what you swallowed but didn't digest
Share with me your quilt of defeats.
We will throw it away.
And I will keep you warm.