Look over your shoulder for the hustle of words.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009


Densely, I contort to hide and mask
the extent of how this joy springs;
though like mossy ground the moisture will
seep up and round your shoes
and you will notice me.
I am conspicuous.

I try indifference instead.
I look as awkward as a heron in this
suit of with-held glances, passed days without

I want you to think
I won't check for you constantly;
a manic bird collecting sticks for an imprudent nest.
I want you to think
I won't pat your
empty spaces for the shape of you and yet
we both know, I think, this is a lie.

Little shy lies are good.
Face-conserving lies told from the need to appear
more bold, more sans desire than reality speaks.
They're the only kind mistakes of love.

The truth is:
I did not need you six months ago;
you were not a known quantity.
But now knowing as I do,
there are tiny pinholes forced in me.
Very small.
Shaped perfectly to fit you, and only you.