Borderline Sciolism

A word; like sciolism is a cataclysm -
its purple, like the sky
fainting in the presence of pietism;

repenting you
is not the same
vice as resenting
you

or remembering you.

A word; like together, followed
hollow-crisp intake of breath,
we say ‘whatever’

simultaneously,

romantically fanatical -
I want to break the lines
from your face like clay,
teach you that you have
taught me well; embody

the body that you lust for,

and even though you hide
in dark doorways, tear me
down until I drown in tepid
doubt, pull me hard
and fast at all angles,

I still feel safe with you.

And a word, like sciolism, is a game
to envision the two of us:

the way you call me needles,
joke, nicknames, this dark
hallway, our shadows buzzing
in the glass of each drape-drawn
window pane. Its still a game

to you. It means nothing to me.
But still,

I strike my place in your life;
a pose, purest picture, young
enough to still know that I have
everything under control,

old enough to require you,
request, then relinquish you.

repeat: the word: hiatus, hate,
intense, injury (we don‘t mean
to destroy each other,

or, I tell myself that you don‘t
mean to hurt me)

we pause, show me her picture;
I say she’s cute, your babies
will be beautiful, you stand
uncomfortable, I wait for you
to leave me alone in this room.

Wait for the word ...
a silent scream: goodbye.