When she says she wants someone to love, I hope you know

I worry I have broken the bone that cares that you read what I say.

Pouring over these poems that other people write,
watching the way we choose to fix the window
through which we are perceived

it is so obvious, your love
the way she moves in your mind
and she knows.
So the truth is dressed, the angle tilted
you play at being obscure, vague
the dim, one-language
of the constantly waking up at night

I do not write her letters anymore.
Feel defeated, completely, by knowing she knows -
how it is we do not talk, the way we do not smile
the absence entire of touch
so I move away from the sound
no longer entertain it.

It pains me to see you do it still,
how many years from that first glance
some joyous accident in body
why do we not let this go?

Silence is not love.
The things she leaves unsaid
unwritten
the lipless, duskwords you read into -
these are not a window you have climbed through
this is nowhere for you to sleep.