"Relax..." She husks lighting soft fingertips down my arm. She uncoils my springloaded fingers, tries to get them to lay flat. Doesn't realize that a fist is natural to me.
As much as I claim non-violence, the preparation for violence
is natural to me.
Fantasy, she is unknown to violence. A variable belonging to closed eyes and kept secrets.
She, inhabitant of a parallel universe is a citizen of my dreams.
I am a citizen of reality.
This means I am a citizen of fists
My hands don't believe in relax.
Relax?? (Untitled Poem)
The Space in Between
This is the space where you breathe, a hitched breath
I should say something prophetic:
I love you? Definitely not.
And my mouth is too tired to begin this lie again,
so we lay here awkwardly, not touching…
after touching so intimately moments ago.
