you are like the wind on a
mountain, your voice is supple.
it weaves through my old furniture
in the house.
my heavy pauses frustrate you.
when I plod from point-to-point
you are already riding rapids
in the rain.
I don’t think it will work out
between the two of us. I sit on
my sofa like a comfortable crab
your hands dance towards the
ceiling, parting curtains
your fingers stroke the pulse of
sunlight, and my
eyes are buried in a book.