I retreated from something, I retreated. I didn’t want that.
Intermittent stars of isolation, this heart drenched with
honeysuckle,
delicate with hopes and fears.
How peaceful to say, “I am contented,”
and have it be so,
and see you speak sans hesitation the moment you open your
lips.
Yet we fool each other --
“Move forward at the touch.” “Give me your certainty.”
To the end we each seek, pretending not to be tired.