21 October 2001

Spare me one space
where I've got a King's X
I can hide in
until it subsides.

The look on your face
is enough to remove
any measure of grace
that you've granted before.

Where's the comfort I'd found?

And yet there's a place
we connect,
you and I, that's inviolate,
jealously guarded.

The brush of a hand
mocking my accent
the way you say "lunch"
and it opens a room
I'd forgotten was there;
not forgotten, but pleasantly
kept to myself.

or the way you collapse on me
when I am writing
and ration your kisses
and shove when I hold you

pulling me close, only,
just for a moment…

My self becomes faded
eroded and slippery
in comfortable calluses
worn smooth from usage,
delightful abrasions.

I've not thought of home
since I stepped off the plane.