The big bad something behind my eyes
Burrows, pounding a penetrating ache,
Spherical, the bullets shoot you,
From a rummaged source
And the hiding isn’t so easy.
The something is obvious, I fear,
Following you across the bar,
Tiny pin pricks traverse my chest,
Enquiring where empathetic minds might be.
The thing about something is,
I wear it on my face,
A compass for you to follow,
A voyage across my lips,
It wells up on my skin,
The piteous condensation of hope,
Advertising outward for you to notice,
And something gets the better of me.
If words were fists
I’d beat a book out of you,
But I’m not so great with the words,
The message archaic, well-worn,
Sit somewhere at the bottom of my drink,
With the thick air sliced by silence,
The timing copious for mistakes,
We are the product of chance,
And the seconds flee from the opportunity.
Will you run from me?
Strategize a diplomatic flight,
Dance around a dramatic exit
with a something in your hands,
Leaving me with a hollow glass?
An exodus felt behind my eyes,
A silent retreat that wraps itself around my ribs,
Squeezing the goodness out of me.
Or two somethings could finally meet
The discovery familiar and yet fresh,
I would place my
callouses in yours,
And trace the lines from one skin to another.
I’ve held every inch of you there, in my mind,
Written a novel of a life,
Sitting at the bar without words,
Silent something pervading the din.
The people conceal me,
Their language is competing.
