and then what is something once it has become nothing to you?
i have too many questions, my lips are too heavy to lift, part,
pucker, engage in any motion of speaking. you touch me and
I feel it in my toes, but i almost wonder:
do you? the words are always at the tip of
my tongue; the words are a mistake
waiting to be made. what if one
day i just forget, let them
hang between us like
stalactites,
slowly
d
     r
        i
           p
              p
                 i
                    n
                       g
                                                        to fill the silence?


and
then
what do
i become, if
i have let some
thing go on too far
or too quickly? i know the
warm tender exquisite
joyful heat of your inhale
as i know my own, but the beauty
lies in something else, in something i
cannot let you forget, even if it means I become
someone/thing else. down the hall, your faucet is
running. i can hear it through the knock on your door
and i wonder if you are listening to the same thing,
or simply dozing off in the scent of my hair. i've missed this.