You drew the wrong conclusions, as I feared;
scrawled them across your face, circled bulbous tears and
faced the wall.
Considered the distance between us with your eyes closed.
I wanted to advise that windows, walls, fences, trees,
did not grow underneath our feet, or cut through our skin, burst
up through the bed-sheets,
but this is a bad time to discuss all this;
Considering the certain cold hush of traffic,
the cold stillness of leaves and puddles after a storm;
I find the drifting purple and silver clouds masterpieces of
which is why I appreciate the pacing and stillness of
our arguments: and maybe why you assume before breath is drawn:
As though your argument is penned, mine penciled,
as though my words are scripted – though it often feels,
out here casting tobacco clouds across constellations I cannot identify,
as though these rehearsals are now rehearsals for another role.
You drew the wrong conclusions,
turned the tone of my silence upside down,
examined the details as would anyone in a role with a taste for the forensic.