He looks a bit like silence
He moves like the patient, cut-glass sound
of an unopened letter
He speaks in careful tiptoes and
a quiet avalanche of intricacies
and delight and cynicism
He laughs in hesitant touches
and halting caresses
afraid of lightning
when he thrives on the howl of thunder
He feels a bit like paper
perhaps I can drown him in ink
bleeding from the tip of my pen
He is a little bit like a blade
and I have always enjoyed cutting
through pillars of arteries
and tunnels of capillaries
I want the sky to swallow me
He is a little bit like a storm
and my eyes feel like a desert
I wonder if he knows that I am a desert
I wonder if he knows any of these
Because I am the slow, keening scream
of too much silence
He looks a lot like silence.