cannot

I tell myself
I will not see you,

so there is no disappointment.

But you show your face
anyway.


Uncompleted sentences
lie heavily
and lazily
in the atmosphere
of us,

snaking their way
through thickened glances.


I am expected
to be entirely consistent,
but my resolve
grows weary.


You said:
"I was walking today,
And could not feel the wind."


I was stumbling myself
around on rain stained pavement,

the air so ripe with rain,
it clung to my skin.

The night laid its fingers on my neck,
and I feared
any congested darkness
lurking with crossed legs.


The day rattles on still,
a new one,

it must be.


But I'm sick of begging for answers,
can't let this adhesion
become less opaque.


Who needs the breeze
anyway?