Here, in this loft, we draw out our endings

with paint, fill canvas with what we don’t say,

blend into shuffling cards at each muted sound

we rattle off, nervous.

We cling to meaning

like floss, buckle ourselves down

until we ourselves buckle under the weight of loss,

weight of words lost between us. This absence

is a wrench and with each word

we twist

farther apart.

 

Truth snowballs out, uncovers layers of melting ice.

Sienna sounds emerge: sun ribbons unraveling.

Each article a watered-down imprint of source.

 

Filament like stretch marks pulls out parts

stilled from growth, borne of stilled motion,

stretched from thorax to a vessel that holds me, more than me,

these threads extensions of what’s inside.

Words come out as proof of what’s there.