Maybe it’s the way you look at me, the way you continue to talk, (unaware of your blush, this violent bruise);
Maybe it’s the way you talk, me swimming in your words like a fish (your words casting shimmers of light, surely if you didn’t mean those thoughts at least they reside in your mind);
the way you move, your clumsy touch; tracing goosebumps on my arm,
as if to confirm we were both solid flesh and thudding pulse;
(if I concentrated hard enough, maybe I could read you like braille.) Our conversations never did make sense, my words got lost in translation from heart to mind to moist mouth… and you never really meant yours.
The way you lurk sullenly in shadows (but surely I left the cave),
hide behind glass walls to sulk, smashing my perceptions, whine in the sun,
the way I never understand a word you say, or thing you do-
words failing like faltering footsteps, when the fog of desire lifted,
that is how we
fall in and out of love.
And from grace.
(Note: I wrote this a long time ago, maybe in February…)
G is for grace, or the lack of it,