my lips aren't locked so tight,
I think

and then there my tongue halts

thumbs pressed into porcelain
I only hope to leave an impression;

chock a stick in one cog
of his endlessly certain thought

he will not be wrong -
even when he has been caught

if God himself sent a whisper on my behalf
a whit of my whimpering in the night
those running thoughts might yet drown it out

a quirk of the working mind

time seems of the essence
I have to consider that he'll forget

I dig my nails in
feel them ripping from the bed

I only hope to leave a dent

but it was an imperceptible sin
a shared blemish on agnate skin

though mine grows inward
and outward and on -
like wild root,
shooting off in all sorts of directions

for him, a second obliterates
but I sleep and wake to it

my lips are loosening,
I think

only to take in breath

a forced inhale
the air of his absence
of cognizance

seems emptier