He tells me.

Silly girl,
I catch my breath and stop
the words I might have said
so as not to pollute the air
with my moth eaten thoughts;
my musty, dusty, second-hand
ideas that sprout chaotically
somewhere beneath his loud,
steady voice and an eyebrow
raise that brings my teetering
venture crashing down. And
I almost knew what to say,
but he tells me so I’m quiet.

Except fuck that.
He has grown too tall on the
air he breathes and it may
all sound groundbreaking but
you know it’s not. Air. Hot, hot
air. And I don’t care. So I
leap. Watch him fall, flailing
down, down, down – yes – that’s
how it feels, so lie there. Quiet.

Silly boy, grown on air, aflame
in the shadow of my triumphant
stare.

 

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