distance.

much like an ever-present lover,
poetry and i need to take breaks.

we don't speak for a few days
save for tiny nods in the late evening,
no offer of a polite "what's up?"
we pontificate in brevity, which
though unanswered, is acknowledged.

but when i have her

she shivers in my arms, she coos
and pleads my fingers
to find her curves and press
into her clay flesh.
as my hands fetch heat

she melts and molds to me, to my shell.
she is me. she is the canary of my sallow throat.