You answered with a synapse
Startling my resolve with unrest
As I felt the change in the make-up of our ties
To each other. We'd built our nest
With texts and forgotten half-smiles -
Layered them with shadows unkempt
Leaking from our darkest sides.
It was an approximation to love, an attempt
By unwilling donors with unhurt prides,
To win the privilege of touch
Without losing sight of the lines.
Gossip didn't bother us much
We'd focus instead on the sighs,
Beats for our particular choreography.
But you've cut short our supply
With this silence, and now, awkwardly,
We fumble words, waiting for each other's turn.
In synapses like these, I ask myself what are we
When the memory of your skin still burns
And I miss your shadow on me.

it's the disconnection between sight and touch
when I knew your hands were brushing my shoulders
but I swear I saw them holding my breath out
into your eyes.

I was told
   by a pair of pity-filled stares
   that simmered frantic shock and dared
That I could not have him. I rebelled,
   furrowing mutterings of what is fair
   while hope suspended me in whirling air,
Picturing
    scenes of hush
    and quiet laughs.
Ironic, then,
  how indifference settled into his expression
  and met my joy with sarcastic aggressions.
Ironic, still,
   that I catch myself delving
     not in the sea-bound winds unravelling
     over the coasts of mythical lands,
But in the shape of your hands
on mine.

thick shackles broken,
lashing curved
together. moons
vanish in those wells,
intent on drying.

suddenly inside
             him

and out, shut
in one second
by stairs unfolded.

left looking, again,
at the warmest hue of chocolate.

So it passes without you
windflows dancing on the places you had been
trying to fill the empty with silent music
and never quite filling


I still feel you