he snaps at me
over every brittle eye lashed shush
it’s a (pretend?) chopstick war of love&hate&
every impassive afternoon in between.
shifting the spectrum into non descript colour
so I’m a purer shade of his nasty, dirty:
. smile.
utterly tasteless darling
this is relief, not jelousy
that your splayed palms are kneading her back now
and not teaching me how to fly.