Sometimes in the Silence

August 26, 2017

Sometimes in the silence

I can finally contemplate

you—the crook of your elbow

as you lean in to me,

the sky around us growing darker,

closing in on the glass

covering us like a sheath.


I'm worried it will shatter 

and cut me deep in the stomach—

piercing a place even

blood has forgotten—

leaving a scar the length

of a swordsman's blade.


Will you trace the hidden

patterns of that scar, some night,

in a bed doused with moonlight?

Will you understand the mysteries

it possesses, the sinews of the body

it has etched itself onto? 


Leaning in to me, do you 

imagine that moonlight, too?

It winking down on us, freezing us

into two metal statues. 

Sometimes in that stillness

I can finally contemplate 

you—and nearly weep from clarity. 


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