Without Answer

We are a collection,
threadbare.
A body torn apart.

Without answer,
the question is unbuttoning
skinny jeans and layers of shirt.
The sound of running in place,
fingers in my mouth.

Delving, submariner,
until the room is coated
in quiet.

Slack

Me, mending and remending

individual links,

the silver thread

that so delicately laces between my fingers and yours.

You, in turning to make

some casual remark

an unconscious gesture.

Tiny metal raindrops

and slack in the line.

There is a time and place for loneliness.

My loneliness sits at a wrought iron chair

in a garden café at twilight,

obviously waiting.

I can find it standing awkwardly

between the covered couches and end tables

of a vacation home

coated in a light layer of greyblue dust.

And it is inside of me,

curled tight like a tea blossom

that explodes sticky hot

in rivulets that

I will absolutely not

allow you to see.