calling out for fluttery eyelash maybes,
sidelong sly warmth and caged half-breed hopes.
But not hidden under these trees;
not with the sweet sting of it hovering;
not in the arch of the angles where cold meets cold.
It’s just science, so
TUNE.
IN.
TOKYO.
Here they calculate the physics of the unsaid;
the throbbing ache of no;
the hypothetical void of the decade.
1 + 1 = too fake laughter trying too hard.
Fast-forward through this business meeting, cause
everything he says is please, please, see me.
She wishes he wouldn’t chatter so,
while he wishes she would
say any, any, anything except
you don’t have to say
that, you know
when he labels her lips perfect.
Baptized in apathetic cigarette smoke
she catches glances like snowflakes.
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