WordTapestry

light, from between my fingers the conversations i forgot as i awoke in the morning, swiftly,  as a glance across the room.  dribbling into silence,  those final syllables.  and with dry lips, i lie still  as the  cocoon unravel s — waiting  until the warmth  becomes imagined,  imaginary.  my fingers outstretched,  air filling  the gaps between.  pantomiming  your lightness of being,  that easy laughter  at things  i cannot see.  lord,  what i would  do to get the last word.

antonym that syncopation of my heart as i keep pace.  can you hear it too? little irregularities.  feel the  monotony i wrap-- thick skin,  a shawl around my neck.  and keep holding,  white-knuckled,  to this apology i leave with myself-- who loves me,  loves me not. altruistic, egotistic.  the likeness  i have forgotten. oh friday's child,  lover  to be loved. 

synonym briskly,  you and i.  we walk shoulder to shoulder.  the rocks  flaying open my rubber soles,  we like to  use things until they break. our shoes,  they match-- though  not so much  as before.  my tongues  cracked,  vague imitations of your smile. and i think,  i will tell you these things,  but you don't  speak in metaphors.  instead,  we put one foot in front  of the other.  briskly,  you and i. 

reprise call it satire, how i fold  tomorrow's shirt with damp palms.  creasing down  the corners, pressing them  firmly.  so that i can don  yesterday's fervor, proudly, and pretend it is mine.  turn the collar inside out so i can bite off  those loose threads-- soft prickles  bowing low.  slowly,  i tear,  leaving split ends   in their wake, the little rows furrowed, complementary, complacent. call it satire,  later,  as i slip it head on in the morning-- devotion saturated, lurid stripes.  i had folded it neatly;  i know i remember last night. and yet. and yet  i'll wear it, still.  feel the fervor,  to make it real.