Like ships in the night, we never quite meet eye-to-eye.
You, sailing straight into sea, and me
settling by the docks.
Like trapeze artists, we never manage a perfect grip.
Contact is a split-second luxury
before we part ways.
All these fleeting moments lead to temporary settlements
of permanent disappointment, of inescapable uncertainty.
You’re the sun and I’m the moon,
orbiting around something we can never anchor ourselves into.
Defined by our movements, don’t you think it’s time
to decelerate, re-stabilize, reconnect.
Space is too big of a word for a problem too small—
pull me in closer, let me wrap myself around you.
Dazzle you with jewels on skin, slick-surface
polishing, a sense of desperate wishing
lingering, steadying myself onto this dock,
this trapeze board, this constructed reality.
Like strangers in a city, we don’t initiate conversation.
Instead it’s the unspoken words of glances and double-takes
a substitute for: ‘what are you waiting for?’
and ‘don’t you know me?’