well paper-poet,
how silence stings
like salt poured,
i know it's torture,
haven’t made that call,
content in my armor
comfortable in my stagnant state
too numb to flinch.

or maybe i pull at the fragile mind
and see nothing but chaos
and confusion,
madness and raw passion
but once touched i wither
into grit and dust.

perhaps it is compassion
in me for others,
a need to spare us both
of inevitable combustion.
perchance i fear your power,
your prowess to make me tingle
while i await your response
with labored breath.

I don’t know really
all i secretly surmise
is i repeatedly rescue
myself
and let you drown,
yet still you remain



buried in anticipation.

very nice

thank you