Chemist -

I think of you half-headed, tilted
as you go about your measuring and mixing -
white-coated, as a sugar-sweet, in a laboratory
that is white as a dream.
The sun is glinting on glass -
rows of dials and things I couldn't name.
There is a cat at the window.
Your fingers tremble slightly as a line of
liquid aches from your wrist, hitting and filling -
the clash of chemicals in the glass-bottom, a
sudden song-burst of the elements -
two-lettered in the fizz.
I watch you at your work and I am sorry
for how we were, last night; hurling
wincing words down the wires that connect us,
secret fingers clenching in the dark. We were
at such a distance -
for now, you are in some pale heaven
watching the conversations of chemicals,
the crash and glide of things I cannot reach -
I'd like to unbutton your white coat-
and take off your skin, apologize with my lips
and gather muster for my own collision.
The morning wears on, the cat airing himself on the sill -
you whisper the word pipette -
slow-bouncing off your lips
in dry spit and acid.