The etchings on the golden floor have no effect on me.
Stale expressions follow you as I pass the stain glass windows.
I am the letter that will never be read.
Clenched jaw and ratty hair.
Hunched over a lopsided desk with only midnight musings for company.
My bleeding pen is the odometer for my silent lips.
So tell me that you want to dance.
Give me the stare you saved for cold December nights.
Tonight I am the penny too short at the register,
the spelling error in your dissertation
and the sigh I won’t expel.
A snarl that plays in your chest.
The sound of your nails tapping against the marble countertop:
it ricochets off telephone lines.
You can’t hide the crease in your brow.
I’m not afraid of anything—even time.
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