Does existence end at the tip of our fingers,
in the whorls where identities hide?

Infatuation:
Broken hearts fixating on
each other's fractures

A deficiency of iron,
but not one of irony.
Losing track of both time,
...and the watch that you gave me.

I'd rather not hear my own talk of hallowness
echo back at, around, and inside me,
but worse is to witness it hurting you -
'It'? Not the talk, but the topic.
And 'worse'?
This dejection can strip my self-worth
- but I'm used to the lack of attention.

So yes, when my mind feels ejected from my body,
when I need to sleep or hide some other way
from what's inside me,
I vacate myself in ways that may desert you
for a while.

I'll just ask that you be patient.
I'm sorry and I'm not;
you deserve a whole,
and I've got to
not be a hole

Inside me resides the pit of a peach.
Fleshy, lovely fuzziness                    
                 beseeched me to eat,
so I leeched it's nutritiousness -
assiduous, acidulous me.

Too meek to speak of weakness,
he just grins and bears his teeth.

Splashes among the splatter of hot water and shampoo.
A speck of the tear-free latter, lathered in thin grey flecks,
slips through                              
                        his receding hair.

Preceding their retreat into the air,
countless droplets of the former had waited
- heated, squeezed, and leaking through pipes,
bound together, flowing
causing groaning -
the pipes growing

then
briefly reigning over the dirt and sweat burrowed
in the furrows of his ever-increasing brow,
grey water falls from grace,
diving down into the drain.
It leaves behind a trace,
filling up the place with a cloud.
now
the curtain's flicked open,
I hear him step out, a towel drying
and his subtle sighing at the humidity,
or is it humility toward our conversation?

(I can never recall what we ever discussed, just that the door didn't keep us apart)

He reached for the handle
the door creaked open a crack
I looked up at the mirror
his crooked smile looking back

then
I caught sight of the sleight'd man
trapped in the glass
now
wiped clear by his hand

A fearful idea passed into my thoughts:
The image he's got of himself's slightly altered.
My words faltered watching his switched, stubbled chin
His lips' starboard grin won't sit right with him,
and he's left unaware of just where his cleft crannies
though he's sure his reflection's his face, it's uncanny -
he is different to me -
the himself that he sees

Asymmetry revealed to me
all he has known he has even been
is not the man his son has seen
until -
I averted my eyes, as he walked to his bedroom
heard the noise of TV as he watched
and he changed
behind closed doors



...later...
More doors close
distance grows between us,
though our intravenous love keeps us reaching
ever outward toward each other
teaching our open arms to also grow
create a closeness
while letting go

It is an indulgent weakness,
our shared blood is pumped
through slumped shrugging shoulders
the years make us older                                        
/
                                         the tears keep us young
as flexed muscles holding us together bulge
in a great show of strength

in
this
instant,
is his embittered,
stubborn stance's
insistence upon
the inherent lack of existence
and consequence
of intimate instances
consistent with
continual distance's
enhanced persistence
of inconvenient
glimpses into
wished circumstances
and kissing lips'
inferences?

Smothered by kisses,
So she smiles and parts our lips
Winter leaves mine cracked

I hear the words clearly: You're doing it wrong
because the ear buds blaring music
to block out others' nonsense
are nestled in
my nostrils

No, it's not voices that I hear

There are no muttering whispers of
hate or fear or sadness, guilt or regret
fluttering into my ears (yet)
- as romantic as that may have sounded
to you

I am not ignorant
to the fact that my restless habits
draw attention to me
with drawn conclusions
...and you
outdrew me

Sadly
there are more than walls that drift into
my line of sight
to my chagrin I find myself spied by those
with more curiosity than any sane person knows

(There is some overbearing self-entitlement
that accompanies the search for
a sign of light
in the face of another)

When I make eye contact, it is simply to feel grounded in reality
and I bet I project this desperation unwaveringly
when my eyes flicker briefly toward those of a stranger

They may sense something mysterious in my shiftiness, though I do not suffer
from the ennui that great artists
are compelled to quell
with narcotics

Nevertheless
folks wonder what my great art could be
what I am in touch with
that renders me unable to be at peace
with the world, as they are

So far I am no great artist
- narcotics would thus drive me further from peace -
instead I'm a poor scientist
synthesizing faulty chemicals

All these molecules my body loves to make
keep me scanning the surroundings
I hurl my horrible hormones at
obsessively

This alone causes me little grief
I've learned to I live with it - in my own way
I've grown detail-oriented, though so have noticed where some issues develop

The real problem arises in that unlike other harmless strangers
with their pleasant perfumes and caring colognes
the charmless hormones I assault the world with are compromised
like all of my chemicals
which (like you) have come to be this way
simply by my being alive

So along comes a compassionate soul
glimpsed through the eyes of a passionate fool
wishing to uncover what bothers me
to discover a potential lover
or to learn what leaves me turning
from them

Some end up pursuing a friendship
or become determined to prompt a long stare
for the deep longing that should come with it
brave the frigid winter or save this timid author?

Not wishing to hurt or offend them
I spend time in their company
yet fail at the delivery
of what should have been progress toward
shared shivering feelings
experiences with meaning

They leave me, seething

No, I hear less and less voices
it's a wordless taunting that haunts me

It's the sound of someone behind me shuffling into a jacket
as if we have just caught up over coffee and said all we could

If I turn toward the sound, it's gone
there is nothing there
and if I don't, I hear the wretched entirety of it

Arm into sleeve
jacket over shoulders
across the back and
the next arm slides in
Zip, snap
That's that

I've felt compelled to face the departing presence for so long
as if to clear my throat and acknowledge or protest its inevitable departure
but it leaves anyway
(...you did)