“Why?”
A question. A simple word.
Drawn out disbelief in the stale air, cradled by your absence.
One lingering syllable left on my tongue,
remaining denial, reaching out, grasping for you.
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Fickle, fragile, fumbling
I shuffle between my fingers
While you craft a masterpiece
Of paper tears and skin.
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I took a challenge from a pair of resilient hands.
You claimed to want to stop
Our tapestries bleeding into each other
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My love does not fit into a box
It dances around it, pulling it this way and that to form a new shape made by the touch of
our lips
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though you say it’s 2.37, telling me what love is…
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He is afraid that her white stomach
will ripen,
stilling blood-black water
and staining sheets.
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