"do you think you truly know me?"
i hear you ask through the thick air surrounding us.
and i’m scared to say that,
to me, you are that small space in time before
the *** boils over the last cherry is picked
the first raindrop drips from the sky.
you’re the suspension that could be lived in
always hoping for perfection because
once occurring, the what could have been is broken
and that’s when i’m scared we’ll crack.
eggshell on tile floor and brittle dried clay
we wouldn’t be sharp glass but
a plaster wall with a single tear through the middle.
and i’m scared to tell you that when i saw the way
the cement under the bridge turned brown from the ruin of the rain,
the iron bleeding,
i thought of you.