Suspended between an inching glance and the constant fluttering of hands,
I shake coolness from my neck and cross my arms against my chest
The room grows small, as does the room in my chair, so that
The only room for solace is in the waking thought of sitting back and
Falling through
The floor
I have long since realized your goal, as you
Fold my comfort into a matchbox and
Slide it into your pocket
To light for later
From early years I’ve been taught to
Tuck my resistant words in the folds of rose petals and
Present them to all in unswerving gratitude, but perhaps
That is not enough to satisfy that
Ache in your crotch
Or your head or
Wherever you bridle
That pesky ego

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c