Dear Friend, when was it you began to fear solitude?
To see the entry and exit of blood and breath,
the coming and going of life and death as waste
if performed in the absence of a lover’s face;
From the start, were the spaces between our fingers spread apart
to make us crave the linger of a touch?
As such, these finger laces weaving through vast empty spaces,
gripping tightly- can bound hands afford to tread so lightly
in the undertow of loneliness? But I digress.
They are cold, you say, my lonely nights:
tumbling past blurring faces, next to untouched pillowcases.
Spotless sinks and scorching drinks
kept hot by lukewarm company, too cool in my uncertainty.
Well, shall I trade this for other warm things?
Low cadence “I love you” pressed into your thigh,
skipped meals and skipped beats laid down at cold feet
stood high on the shards of a once-masterpiece?
This too is love, I think.
This dimming spark, rusted and impatient
as we grate against the edges of sandpaper conversations.
Is this also warm? Shall I also burn?
To cast aside my guiding oars and plunge into now-gentle waves
turned jagged peaks and haggard weeks of misery and downpour days.
To break and break myself again in order to delight in pain-
Ah.
Dear friend, when was it I began to fear love?

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