Naked

Everything here is something else.
Across from me in conversation,
a woman speaks, then you, and
your invisible ink, that’s what I will call it,
weakens.
No one here reads this way, but me,
arc and glide of your ink on a surface,
spreading in a sacrifice
you never intended to give.
Your unspeakable world, dear; I mean,
the silence
of holding it all together, and its tremor
sometimes when
in darkness, or where we pretend we
do not see,
I feel you reach for my shoulders
before you reach them.
You cannot explain to others, or me,
yourself,
or the places you inhabit
or have drifted to,
and have made your way back from, mostly,
mostly,
though I have lain my cheek on your breast,
and listened to a far off and
unaccompanied pulse,
bringing to mind how a tree can sometimes
remind me of a shadow of itself and a
branch that taps on a window, and this,
I know now is what I’ve heard from you
all this time.
So, my love, I will not be surprised
if you strip in front of us and walk to the door,
turning the knob slowly, careful not to wake us.
Your naked body as you slip from the room,
turning to me, your smile
that does not leave.

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