You do not always know what I am thinking.
The other day, for instance,
a lock of hair fell over your glossy blinking eye.
I wanted to brush it away but didn’t know how-
With a hand or a finger?
Without saying anything?
What moment would it lead to?
What would you think?
I left it there.
It was the only thing I could stare at while you spoke.
I never tell you everything.
I never made much sense,
always drunk on the frosty air
nibbling our crimson cheeks,
drawling, waxing lyrical,
But that is what you like about me.
Tonight I look at old misplaced photographs,
where our faces are eternally happy
(or at least, the expression remains
even if the sensation is gone).
We are awkwardly angular,
caught half-smiling uncertainly,
frozen by the ugly glare of the camera’s flash.
The eyes, black luminous pearls
focused on blankness.
The curving mouths weighed down,
slightly opened with pregnant pauses,
nonsensical words like mine.
Twenty years and this is my only ‘legacy’-
Sounds, words, ideas so impressive
they took flight and smashed
head first into the sun
bursting out of their delicate skins,
like soap bubbles,
like falling droplets of rambling rain,
scattered all over the page
amongst other thoughts:
I wonder when we learned how to walk
past those we know
with such studied casual indifference.
Chins lifted up, hearts darting.
Nostalgia is wasteful indulgence.
It fuels and then consumes you.
Two broken people do not add up to a whole.
You are incapable of loving.
I am incapable of being loved.