I used to think blue eyes were pretty,
his were not.
his were not cornflower, sapphire, baby, indigo, azure,
or cloudy sky blue.
His were midnight where the light pollution from the city blocks the stars.
Iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death

I feel the world at
   times conspires to make true my
basic discontent.

Lips together, pressed,
as if you were the one dead,
"Wake up"-your only prayer,
but death doesn't care.
Now you can only choke,
on words you never spoke.

I want to believe in steady things,
but even my own reflection changes
when I look too long.
Are you here?
Do you love me?
Will you stay?
I ask without asking,
watching for the answer
in the way your hands move,
the way your breath hesitates before a word.

I know I feel too much,
ask too much,
but the silence between us is louder
than anything I could say.
So I fill it.
With words, with fear, with love—
all spilling over,
all too much,
all at once.

And still, I wonder, if it’s enough.

When I sit alone,
Someone will ask, “Can I use this chair?”
Then carry it to another table
To laugh with friends over there—
Leaving me, still and silent,
Closed off like a clam.