The Fifth

On most days

I was content to be silent,

the observer,

as if it might be possible

to play the keeper of time,

capturing small particles of delicate exchanges

in a glass jar filled with the light of mothy memory.



At the edge of the open flame of the last days of caring,

the color of your lips came together,

your remarks clipped,

about needing something soft from me again,



the words I never noticed are unhinged,

fish bones in my throat

until they tumble

and crash into dozens of shards,

needles of glass exploding on impact.



My hand rocketed to cover

the damage done

and I could not take back all the ways

each syllable stood naked with meaning

like sour milk dreaming.

curdled abruptly

between us.

There was no way to ignore lump of truth

that could have been love

had I kept my mind in the darkness

waiting for the moment of recognition

to pass.