Your hair's
mussed up
and there's a
run in
your stocking.

But I can't
tell you this,
or run my
hand through
your hair.

I don't get to
touch you anymore.
I just have to
watch you walk
away.

You've been walking away
all my life.

You're walking away forever.


.

We avoid each other
best we can.

You're afraid
I'll talk
to you,
and I'm afraid
I'll say something
stupid
if I do.

It's a perfect
relationship
in stasis.

We're great apart.

what's broken
will break again

again and again

because it's only
held together
by a kind of
pretend--

something stupid
like hope
or a notion of
fairness

this world is not fair

the broken keep
breaking

and all the faith
and all the glue
and all the want
can't make anything
more
out of a pile
of pieces

so pieces you stay

and who wants that?

.

So someone
wrote
poems,
painted on turtle
shells,
danced with abandon--

such small
things
become the
monuments
to our lives.

Things
true and
forgettable.

Window shopping holding
hands.
A matinee.
Sex in the afternoon
before
night school.

And the light,

summer sun through
the blinds.
Stars on the wall.
Touch and love
and
wonder.

All in you.

Touching you,
loving you,

the love,
the time,
the day,
and so much wonder.


All the golden light.


.

late,
Christmas lights
in rain
outside your house.
going home
alone.

all of you.
all of the yous.

facets.

you showing me
how much
there is in you
to see.

and me
just wanting to
get lost
exploring
this universe
here
smiling at me
tonight.