by Matthew Zangen
I held you like the forced breath
hissed into your chest;
it asked me if I had called often enough
to name the color crawling from your lips.
I saw for you through those eyelids,
waiting steals from us, time
like cold promises, doubts,
but sleep cannot accuse anyone
of hoping. We were only voiceless
as your finger on my shoulder, ticking
its time, it’s time.
I let go of your deafness first. I heard you confuse me for home
or I confused myself for leaving.
I couldn’t see you anymore. You looked to me like the morning,
on warm revelations
of pancakes with ice cream.
I ask myself now
what roles will be forgiven
or stood in, like a box we meant to step through
and instead burned?
What happens if I paint your lips my favorite color?
Posted on 04/04/2022
Copyright © 2022 Matthew Zangen