color slips from photographs
and collects in a single file line
that leads through your door frame
and into the kitchen, where
the smell of us kisses your cheeks warm.

it's not the physical communication that's wrong
it's not the knowing parts, it's the missing pieces,
or the things we succeed to keep out:
like cold air, and feelings.

at least for now.

"you're lucky."

I have no idea what I'm doing.

"no one knows."