I would like to blame the air.
It is the air which keeps us as separate people.
The air which determines the proper distance to keep
between individuals, as we walk the bustling streets.
The air lingering behind one’s earlobe,
down the curve of one’s neck,
to the slope of one’s shoulder,
where it silently resides.
The air which lies in the palm of one’s hand,
that seeps into the gaps in between the fingers,
fingers which curl like wilting roses,
wilting roses with half-hearted cries,
half-hearted cries to savour a last wavering touch,
a last kiss,
before crawling into the shape of a cold hard fist.
The air which is trapped in the corners of one’s mouth,
Where unspeakable secrets hover on the roof of one’s tongue,
(because the safest place to hide,
is always the most dangerous place to find),
secrets which binds us and breaks us,
so we remain as both strangers and soul mates.
The air that we breathe in and out,
as we lie alone in bed,
in and out, in and out,
which becomes so warm and deep,
that we are led to believe
it is the breath of someone else.