“I thought of nothing else,” she whispers,

a far away feeling overtaking her.

“but ravishing you from head to foot,

saving your toes for a treat.”


Easy to forget this particular

pain, how it plants itself down,

takes up empty thoughtless spaces,

places I forget to defend.


With you it is over then over again,

and I while have already mended the fences,

they are not unbreakable.

You stand in front of me, facing away, line


of your poorly cut-cut-offs taunting, tantalizing.

Purposefully you draw my attention to it,

daring me to look away (which I would

not). And this is how we torture each other.


Tiny glimpses into what we have tasted

but can never feast on. I have memories-

your bruised thigh, one discarded sock, the other

complementing your ankle, a flexed calf, bed post.


Images of you walking at night, shadows

of street lights graying the pavement, blurring

your shoes, fragmenting your face. Looking up

at the camera lens, one eye raised, your lips wanting


to ask “where are you,” why we are not together,

going into this dance club, the sweat and sway

of the crowd pressing us closer, my hands pulling

your hips. But all of this is posturing.


Always something in between, breaking us,

waiting to prove to us the foolishness in our hearts

is our undoing, until one of us pulls back,

understanding, finally seeing the damage


this recklessness entices. You know I can’t

let you go. You know you wont ask me to,

but rely on silence and its devastation,

which is sufficient.


I have written you a thousand times,

ten of thousands of words, ten thousand phrases.

Each of them a vain attempt to understand how

I could have allowed any of this to matter,


allowed you a permanent home in my heart.


About fenster

There are some who call me, Tim?

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