Is it me—this chasm void
that hangs in shadowed clouds
like distance folded, folds again
and makes this little space
a distance none of us can bridge?

The guarded silence in your eyes
tells more than all the bolstered words
poured out, and pouring
fuel the contradiction in your voice.

It’s not the skeletons I fear—
buried in the self-defense
of systems laid and structures made—
the untold truths you wear
in smiles free of doubt.

It’s that—in pouring—I talk the shape
of every feeling never felt
and wear the trappings of your heart
cast off like clothes asunder.

Taking every smile when you depart,
all the words of confidence—there remains
the echo of words that never
should have gone unspoken,
and I am left to weep these bitter tears alone.

But in the night, when even moths have given o’re
I scrape the barnacles of shale
that—leaching—haunt my gentle sleep
till scale-like fall and leave untroubled:
I rest, content, alone.

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