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 **** 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.

I'm trying to keep our breaths in sync
but yours aren't deep enough

Mommy won't be kissing Santa Claus this year
I don't know who Mommy will be kissing next year
or next month
But it won't be Santa
It won't ever again be Santa

So much change,
Not enough growth

Hearts
     The secrets they hold can break their neighbors'
     The secrets they hold are kept in hardwood floors

Stranger-friend, how are you? Where are you?
Stranger yet, I hardly cry anymore
Just at those videos where people who are deaf hear for the first time
Or one I saw today where orphaned children were adopted

I am sensitive to that which I am removed from
(tabs on computer screens)

What are we but what we are not?

It's projection