I know he's been there
Somewhere in between the palm of my hand and the unwritten corners of last week...
I know he's seen me, tip-toeing over the shadows that felt misplaced in his mother's
hallway, the darkness contradicting the way I kissed him, the way he whispered...
the way I cried.
My calves can't handle this and I'm desperate to return to something
like the way my fingers fumble on buttons that should have never become undone and I
swear, my blue jeans are older now, they've lost their pride as the mirrors that reflect
me laugh upon the lilts of dishonesty,
and now I feel less than important, despite the crawling of my skin and the knowledge that
have rested there.
I'm perfect when the pages warp, when Webster falls asleep and dreams, when surrealism
flashes her sparkling smile across dictionary pages and the stain of irrationality
over my cheeks,
I'm terrified of silence yet I stay inside myself, I wrap my mind in thought and mutter
insensibilities occasionally, I discover the warmth inside my stomach when fear attempts
to bite me, and I turn a little to my left to find him, breathing,
behind the shadows
My palms are clammy, I've picked up memories and clenched onto them for far too long, I've
let them drop and shatter and studied their destruction, but I've looked up when I've been
raking the earth of inability for hours and I see him,
holding irrationality in between his sparkling teeth
and I'm perfect, somehow,
in these tangles