Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Don’t say my name out loud.

I can feel the boring of his eyes through my skull, down turned
I don’t dare look up.
I can feel his hands, always playing as if at a piano, strumming against my own
I can see his mouth
Moving silently, stammering wordlessly on things we can’t bear to say
Fingers pressed to the veins at my wrist
As if I am made of thinnest glass
A touch that reminds me of smoke
I cave inwardly

In a way that helplessness does not give accurate description to

More than being helpless
More than a loss of power
A convalescence of the will
One that we both surrendered to long ago

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