What ever happened to my
transparency, your cunning,
these thick, howling nights
dancing on our noses?
Your face is out of reach.
My face is in the Pacific.
Your face is out of reach.
My face is in the Antarctic,
stinging molecules forcing
an eclectic smile to triumph
over my frail cheekbones.
What ever happened to the
rhythmic breathing of friends?
Casual intervals subtle in side-
street lights, hovering in our
own chest caverns, unaware
of the warm, ever-moving
force of beauty in turmoil;
what ever happened to that,
and the comfort that brought?
Now we are more aware than flies.
Or, at least I am, articulating my
inverted sense of faithfulness to
the warm, taunting winds.
To suck in my breath and just say it
aloud could take months of closed lips,
but to meet your gaze and mean it
would take decades more of stoicism.
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