Depth for you is manifest in surfaces, connections

while mine are in  layers and directions

plummeting inwardly.

 

You, to me, yes! you take up a slot of space

 the way you lope, bend and use those hands so beautifully;

the muscle in your jaw

the distaste in the wrinkle of your nose

while your pupils grow huge.

 

But in the dark,  my night-sight sees  your shape, it’s content;

the way your flesh sits  nicely on your bones

no nonsense, so Capricornian;

the groping pain in your dim profile leant over, staring

all the thoughts, words tumbled, useless:

 

I mean, let ME go!

in desperation to put a distance in-between.

Isn’t it enough in itself, that need?

I see it in the shape, the substance of you

the nameless terror implicit, detectable in the skin.

I see, without your skill and body-speak, the cunning of that reticence.

This way you hold the cards, not to be pre-empted

leaving the space to move fast, take yourself elsewhere.

 

So why don’t you get off my back

and un-throttle me from your horrible loving?

My space is threatened, clouded

by the way you look, breath, even exist.

I object to the way you hide your loneliness and hurt

with laughter and multitudes of faces passing

the hypocrisy, the callosity of faith called fate

- those bloody stars over-seeing.

I object to your words and even worse, your silences

and the fact that you don’t intend to disturb, offend or compromise

when it’s exactly what you do.

 

I wash my hands of you.

My heart never conceded

though it ached and longed to find you.

But all it found was a reflection, projection

shimmering mirrors of illusion, mutually.