Your hands are as cold as mine. I hardly flinch — I'm looking for ways to allude to your vanity. I don't think it very kind, when in a pinch, to dig a tomb for the still-breathing man to see. In my time away from you I built a bridge suspended by hopes of your river-crossing ways. These boards I used are tried and true, and but a smidgen of the arsenal you're owed within this phase.

You shiver once upon the marble of the dentist's office steps. Your mind wanders; my leg's asleep. I turn your face from the dark apartment on floor ten, our fingers entwined for the length that some tea would steep. The rice and spices lose their heat and go to waste inside of their plastic bag and furniture. Neither of us want to eat. "No, not a taste."

Your skiing career, you assure me, was amateur. "Your hands are as cold as mine," I barely note, distracted in study. The contours of your face are so precise and so divine. Girl, in your heart, will these hands ever find a place?

Hey, I hear you reluctantly grasp for the words you must say. You look at the faces around us but never at mine. You say that you can't make a promise — and that's totally fine, 'cause I can see where you're at, and undoubtedly...

Hey, I hear you reluctantly grasp for the words you must say. Your eyes, they are shining so bright though you're slow to respond; you see just the fear of the present and never beyond; so I'll just trace the crease of your palm in the silence before you go home.