Sunday night
fever dreams grip
as Monday sneaks its sickness in,

The working week, an ague
of shivered sweats and broken thought
without the salve of your talk,
your medicinal tongue

Longer days hide Friday night
and recovery

Day and night
Night and day
Keep on going
It's just been two days

Count in weeks.
Why not months ?
Because it's been long....
Since we last talked

-Can I talk about it?
~Can you?
-I cannot.

Try to remember that we did use to have good times
The bridge you want to burn will your heart satisfy?
Small talks we could do, weather we could talk
We won’t share a dance, we won’t go for a walk
Yet can you just burn that bridge all the way down?
Was the past made of bricks, just stacked by a clown?
Problems are brushed off, subjects are ignored
We talk about our kids and how much they’re adored
Forget about the pain and the topics of the world
This one conversation it’s flowing in a mold
The time that  I give, it’s not that hard for me
All the quiet from before , was all I could hear...
Small talks can’t last forever so you asked about my cat
I smiled when I answered and thanked you for our chat

slighted fingertips
withdrawing from a near-fatal embrace
how does it feel?
to brush precariously
at the edge of something
infinitely beautiful;
to find the void
greeting you instead.

curled at waist height
or tied
to the belt loops of jeans
or smushed into pockets,
balled up
waiting for  another
chance to extend again.

there in the throes of night
unclenching, reclenching fists lay,
wondering

will the next time will be different
and
how will it feel?

Be careful with words you intone,
because words have lives of their own.
Words overblown, relayed on the phone,
words in harsh tones that jolt, stun and depose,
shocking with what they disclose.