there is no reconciliation.
we're bleeding like paint
in the rain—
wilting flowers
colourless in
our greys.

sometimes your eyes
double, your words
curl my cheek, still lingering
to brush stray strands.

i'm open inside out;
when you turn away
i know the hinges are closing.

we're spinning.
spinning.
spinning.
in the next instant,
it's gone.
the fading laughter is still caught in my throat.

a million lines make a window:
each suspended,
each digressing in the paleness
of space.

this distance from
you (a blotch of dark ink,
bits of pressed lead)
can never hurt more
than your expectation.