We sit at day break with our legs crossed and mind’s wondering.

Who will flinch first?

Morning’s dance, setting the tone, of who will hang up and who answers the phone.

Go away.

I don’t want to talk, the words are all stuck, and I’m trying desperately not to say fuck.

Especially to you.

If you’d leave I could get my thoughts where they belong.

Never mind how.

Your ears are younger than my pain

Your mind naive it can’t understand the rain

Clouded thought images, they are mine, only drawn in crayola when I was nine.

Yah, those ones you picked up and discarded, in a single swiping motion like the tail of a horse, my life scrawling reduced to a fly, a heap of memories, my snap shots.

I saw them, you set them on banana peels, after awhile your egg shells and coffee grounds dripped on top.

I wanted to grab and crumple them up, stuff them deep down in my pocket.

I knew I could.

But the next image was already created by your crippled wood emotions.

I knew I was different, they told me that at school.

I played the part to stay out of your way.

Turn around and run?

I stayed to touch your thermo infused hatred, it was the only warmth I knew.

Waiting patiently for your eyes to align and focus to return, you’d see me again without the burn, we wouldn’t tremble when someone reached out, the ringing couldn’t echo over our shouts, we’d answer when they called for us.

Speaking with tall backs and concrete tones.

Together

in the same room

not shivering alone.

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