there’s always this vast space between the two of us—
a sort of unrest, lying comfortably on the coffee table.
and we try to ignore as much as we could, don’t we
don’t we try to mask everything in steam and whipped cream?
we talk about intimacy—you even stretch your fingers,
try to close the g a p: one part, air; two parts, ambiguity—
you cover my fingers with your palm but i can’t feel anything
and it used to frustrate me so much, but what can i do?
you and i are nothing against the moment, no matter how
serene our faces—how steady our breaths
we cannot win a fight that isn’t
even if you cover my hands with yours,
we’ll always be separate entities
never going beyond existence.

such a waste.