A Tuesday evening,
The tide is out, the stones are green,
Awkward hellos, bumping into walls.
You and me in black,
Walking slow, sipping, sighing.
Sit with me on a bench while I tell you
Why not.
Why we can’t keep keeping on,
Why we shouldn’t.
You’ll only half listen,
Hear the bits that make sense,
Drop the rest in the bin with your Fanta can.
Come back to me tomorrow,
Like nothing ever happened.
Believe you’ll be asleep in my bed by Thursday,
Repeat myself when you find that you’re not.
How do we break up when we were never together?
Does something that never started ever get to stop?

There is a light that comes from the telly,
Sometimes the moon shines in the night,
But not a flicker from the table,
No message pops up in the chat.
I wonder when the time is coming,
When does the blink mean less than that?
I circle back, afraid of something—
Not getting any, and yet getting some.

Often we don't know

how to talk to each other --


so we just gossip.

s.
   s o n o r a ,
n.
   n o t  r i g h t  n o w
a.
   a m  b u s y ,  c a n ' t  t a l k                  
p.
  please don't leave
d.
  d o n ' t  g e t  a t t a c h e d  s o  f a s t
r.
  rare is true attraction and rare is reciprocation. how quick you are to dismiss it
a.
  am I to go on with my life as if you are not a steadying force? you will let me stumble
g.
  g u e s s  ******>.
.
.
n.
  now is the end? love is irrational but you don't understand

I’m at a stand-still with you.

You ask for my advice.
I give it.

You don’t like it.
I offer something different.

Not good enough.
Then figure it out yourself.

I need your help.
Then I need you to accept it.

I paddle this verbal boat forward.
And you paddle it back.

We’re not really going anywhere.
Just making a splash.

Playing ball
with a sack
full of words,
I nod along
as you set up.
Clinging to my drink
as if my bones
were connected,
I trace my pocket
over and over again.
Until finally,
your voice slows,
and my hands catch
your words.
As they reach
to toss back
a response,
I’m relieved
to have something–
anything–
to do with my hands.

Cutting through the canvas of silence,
you present as a practiced painter,
laying out all your lines
with deliberate ease.

Each stroke
of your tongue
frames intention
with perfect dimension,
while this pause
signals invitation
for interpretation.

But the shapes your lips make,
collapse with your features,
and I’m left unsure of your tone.
I can't gauge your reaction,
but it dictates my next word.

Your brushstrokes fall faster
than I’m able to sift through
my archives of memory,
searching for something
that might help me relate.

I inventory my pallet of words
But the pigments are dull
And their boundaries blended.
I try to string together a response,
But the art of conversation
is lost on me.

All eyes narrowed on The One
Here comes the voting, voting
Tongues poised for validation,
Ever doting, devoting.

To keep us all in check, below,
The arena's set of old man lies, lies
Confidence overflows,undeserved
Them ego's high, so fight.

Dying slowly from lack of oxygen
Stench of fakery, faking
I've only ever wanted real connections
And for that I'm broken, breaking.