Oh, to that man who will come
split inside the Apolline.
Oh, to the onlookers
each one- whether salty pepper or
match dim eyes and laugh lines
in mathematical ways
they wait for dinner.
they’re givers- I
watched through grey pipes
No standing under.
knowing that thing
pretends to see me, hear me
doesn’t here see itself.
perhaps a musical man
pondering the notes
of my breaths.
Applying the theories
but not standing straight.
or a written man only
walking on the cracks
thinking of the sentences,
I can’t finish-
finish for him.
If someone, someday whispers trusting lines
I’ll manifest the sea and watch him float
(but make sure I have kept my tone resigned)
And hope the salt won’t devastate my throat
Though sails are white where lovers used to lie,
And bitter truth has long since cast away
The deck is steady when you fill my eyes
My scurvy tongue a victim of your sway
With melodies of silence on his lips
He hums a tune and spills my breath undressed
Much can’t be done with men that steal a kiss
But I’ll resist until my points addressed-
For vocal chords that haven’t sung in days
Can never be desired in your gaze.
Hands steer on their own.
I don’t know, I don’t like having
high beams near trees.
sorry, you never asked.
Ears listen as you talk of
small and blank days
pushing swings with legs.
It could have been anyone.
you talk over the faint
melodies playing near me.
please, know that I’m trying
to turn the key. Ignition into G.
Em isn’t for everyone, but it’s what
uncolors their knuckles white- until
I ask them to
each finger’s frequency.
please, don’t accuse me
of severing the nerve endings.
Hands open on their own, after all.
I happen to be driving you back home-
you’re the one deciding
to kidnap yourself
with peppermint patties or
a denial dalliance.
Oh do tell, why am I the palm reader?
I silent. Eye reads the road.
I merely point my side
mirror towards you.
— The End —