I can smell you burning in that corner.
As you quietly make love to your paper words,
From last month’s magazine.
The heat from your exhaust smells like,
A melted plastic spoon,
At the bottom of a dishwasher.
And I, the eyes that see past those secret pages in your book.
I, the lips that ache to whisper,
Tell me more…
I can feel the pain you try to white out.
While you proudly exhale your strengths,
Into a perfectly formatted document.
Putting out yesterday’s Marlboro into a dirty ashtray.
And climb into bed with your fears.
I, the hands that itch to soothe what haunts you.
I, the ears that yearn to listen.
Place me crooked upon your chest,
So that I may hear you…