that space
It seems there was a space
between you and I.
Less than the distance between my head
and your feet.
More than the shadows between
open windows and open eyes.
A small room,
a waiting room.
Places where people dream of death
and flowers grow, die, and are thrown away
in a neat, impersonal cycle.
A lady in a white coat told me to be quiet,
and this is my eighteenth day of solitaire.
A white room.
A hot room.
Can I pass by without taking some souvenir?
The sweat of one thousand choices covers me,
the taste of untongued boys drips down my throat
but I touch no one.
No one feels this strain.
A clean room.
A bedroom.
A postcard of my life, a few pages of diary
do not prove that you were real.
A picture in a frame.
A wrist behind my head.
It seems there was a space between you and I,
maybe between hello and goodbye,
smaller than my smile
in your dark room.