[13 September 2019]
Your words and your desire
separated by two thin panes
of glass, counting the minutes,
piling them high, sorting them into highs
and lows and other things undeniably
known not as impassibility but as
something rather like confidence. Truth is tested and trust
is built in the silence between
word and speech. In your eye,
even stones take flight and rocks
cry out. I wonder how long
it will be until I can hold you or
how long you will let me hold
you or how long you would
be held by me. Time cannot be counted
in this way. Meaning can’t be built
in the mind’s eye, at least not
in mine, and not because I haven’t
tried. And so we fall into
old rhythms again, new
to us but old old old
older than we can possibly
remember, stretching and dragging
out moments and fears and hopes
and late-night conversations, stitching
together the frayed ends of things long worn
and threadbare until we are
warm enough to fall asleep.
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