she looks at me
urgently—
the sound of thunder.
if I was going to be honest,
let your hand travel
lower than my shoulderbone
& keep breathing in,
pushing out carbon,
no faces or ghosthands inside
my lungs,
pain attaches to lust,
the unwanted guest at dinner,
the old woman with too much red
lipstick, painting her eyes
in the corner.
She sometimes whispers my secrets
aloud in rooms with known faces
without a veil, only downturned eyes,
yellow teeth & whiskey,
I want to ask if this is me.
Ask whoever invented the constant
of time. Decided that we move
according to spinning hands
or the shadow of the sun.
I wonder if they know
they invented music as well.
I move according to stress
& tension, my bones decided this
before I had a reason to object,
but you touch me so gently.
I remember we survive
by reshaping,
molding differently into clay
perhaps there is a chance
for us after all.
