and if you can't listen, you can't ask questions.
the handwriting must round itself out, the mentality
squeeze into smaller lines and smaller sizes.
the ocean is larger than expected, lines of travel
stretched thin over plate tectonics.
she watches her mirrorself curl up into ringlets,
fingers through hair, scent on the cusp of the wrist.
and if her veins should run a little farther for your
presence, who can blame her? for what you are.
you are weeping, curled in the corner of the room.
it is dark and there are no answers.
so the question stays unanswered, the end of it
dribbling off into the gutter, smelling of sex.