by the by

         By the way,
         p.s., can I tell you more?
It’s like we’re out on the floor
         but it’s not, because we’re
here
           and there,
Across the room
       but aware
Of my eyes
        on your lips,
                 lips on neck,
            on hips,
        on lips.
Next.
The wall,
       the segregation.
Not just of a sound booth.
        Of a sound proof existence.
Can you hear me now?
      Good.
          Because I’m still listening.
We can drive forever,
     two pieces of graphite
           shrouded in the cloud of breath
Freezing to death on our bed of feathers.
Are you burning?
Stoking me with your eyes through the hall
        burning a hole in the wall just above my head.
Instead, can you kumbya,
Singing camp songs beside the creek,
    the stones the only things sturdy around here
And even they tumble.
       Slippery surfaces lie beneath the clear water,
Waiting for prey
                          to pray on.
Do you hear the humming,
                           humming—
                          droning in the background,
The black dog sitting on our stoop.
Our.
     our hour.
Never long enough for me to say it.
             By the way,
             p.s., there’s too much to tell.
So I stay silent in my commitment to the absurd.
       Just friends?
         Of course not.
                 No one will believe,
When not speaking leads to hours of philosophy.
        Our belief in our nothing,
                  Or at least mine,
        Dragging the ore out, the hour out.
   Our out in the open niceties tugging at the hair on the back of your neck,
Going to our heads,
Suspending us in the moment
         But taking days to bring us back down.
The hushed, hidden words renewing our little secret.
         So hush.
I hear a new day dawning.