light littering a space in which i wish to sleep.
April-eyed chance, February-born desire,
failure spun by March.
fragrant trees on a campus weekend,
no one there to enjoy them.
walking slowly, and overestimating.
you can always count on reality to rush.
multiple copies of a book, only one in use.
truth rounded with the smog of manners,
where risk and restriction struggle.
foretaste of feelings on Wednesday,
and all too soon, your Thursday words
bleached with Friday morning.

i suppose death, too, is painful,
but then i remember
what it means
to sustain.

to know what you never will.

to know envy for the pages fluent
in the warmth of your fingers.
never knowing, what it must be like
to interrupt the coolness of your glasses
against the silent flame of your skin.
to know about the hidden avenues in your hair,
my hands have dreams about crossing.

i suppose knowing is painful,
as it is to know
these breaths i withdraw
to lock you
in my language:

they are all so terribly useless.