it’s desperation: silent or screaming,
for the little things that no one sees.
. . . . for the sideways glances and an off-hand hello,
. . . . just the sound of a voice not my own.
. . . . for the creases at the corners of smiling eyes,
. . . . for hair tied back,
. . . . for the sound of a sleeper breathing.
i want what i don’t have until i have it, then
i want what i once had but somehow lost.
. . . . oh, but skin! skin! and the brush of wet lips!
. . . . and the head pressed to my chest,
. . . . and the hand held in my hand…
desperation makes us weak,
but desperation makes us braver,
so clipped of our wings, we jump.
i’m jumping. i’m going to…
. . . . i freeze myself in space to watch the obvious unfold.
. . . . i’ve been writing this same story far too long.
. . . . returned to myself, i step back from the ledge, refraining
at least until tomorrow.