you speak like glasswork--
hot, measured, and fragile.
empty promises and murky
depths, opacity that chills
and stuns.
you speak of love
as if you know it,
but you've never let it greet you
at your door.
it knocks and you freeze,
pretend it's a stranger,
though you knew its name before it did.
you've stolen more
than you can ever repay,
and brevity in stillness still stings.
you will do well
without your opaque glass
and brittle words,
but I can't promise the same.
we all write poems to play a game
