It's not our bodies in cubism;
the cavity of lonely caresses

how you wandered into my bathwater
needing to touch something

solid,

something real. It's not modernistic,
or ultramodern. It's not surrealistic -

it's how I need to pretend
that I don't want you to speak.

It's how you wouldn't, even if
I asked you to.

It's Sinatra, playing from the other room,
a thick muscle tethered

heartbeats at first on low
and then screaming.

It's the mistakes I've made;
how people tell me that I've changed since the crash,

and when we lay; nude impressionists I fall
asleep in between your hot and sticky thighs.

I dream about weeping, sobbing behind closed doors
and when I wake up my fists are clenched,

my heart is coiled
and I curl (un-gathered) inside a time
when I did not feel so scattered.

It's not that you leave me each morning
with a kiss on the bridge of my nose,

or that you didn't know me before it happened.
It isn't that I don't want to talk about it

with a doctor who holds one of my breasts in his hand.
It isn't his questions.
It isn't your concerns.

It's the shape of my face
twisted across the glass;
my body
meandering
in and out of the impact.

The not so phantom pain of my body
a year later.

It isn't you
it's me.