Long Division

Standing directly under the moon. Wearing the bed with a vigilant ease. She drew circles with her fingers. On the canvas of his silence. Too close she whispered to herself. Too dark perhaps. Weathered the debate in her head. As they outlines quickly came and went in a quiet storm.

No faces. TO embrace in the pillow of touch. No silhouettes. To rape in the savage of lust. Just gauged pages. Scarred with invisible ink. And the gnarled pencils that make their graves beneath.

I could wear this nothing for as long as it takes. The perpetual windows that endlessly thrill to the outside. Out there. Where everything is different. The glowing buttons. That always promise a different picture.

The stoic glass that stands there. Between. Her worlds. Underwear at its feet. Deciding what she'll see.

She always assumes it's not listening.