it is the pinning
the sweet anticipation
one more word will solve the
silence that grows between us

i am sure you think of me during
these hours, at least as little as i try
to think of you in your absence

it is the pinning
that pushes me away, every word
i reply with some impatience
(disdain)

and i wonder if you feel the same
for me as i feel for him

when his words fall on my lap
and i wonder why him
and not you

it leaves the taste of wrath
on my tongue, careless words
poignant with lust

for someone else

look at it and weep
i say, setting the bait and
you rise to the occasion

french pours out of your tongue
the way english does from mine
and it melts together into keats

we enter the realm of quick fingers
and one minute to think of a clever reply

and you call me la belle dame sans merci
leaving me wondering
if you do think i'm beautiful

Longest standing –
Missing the train,
The car, the chances.
The security of sterile hopes,
The breaking of the blood molds.
We are made of flawed glass,
Of cringed sand and timeless
Brass.