The words I hear you cannot see;
they settle on my skin like dust.
One day perhaps my skin will litter your kitchen table,
and all that you will have is this dust of me.
But for now, we are fighting the currents of pain and separation.
I have told more stories than you will ever know;
becoming less myself is my source of life.
Know that I have only ever told one lie,
and it hid from you the rest inside.
I thought I wouldn’t want to get to know you.
You asked me why I stand so still,
my eyes aghast and thumbs pinched in.
My neck cracks as I remember:
I will never drop my stance for you,
though one day I may come to love you.
I left the rose you gave me on the shelf.
I like to think it grew old enough to feather into petals.