Forward Motion
Keep
myself
away

from you; as though distance
were ice and I could freeze
myself into an ever onward
declaration – a pathway -
a pathos – an undecided
navigation, though

I have
still
anchored
myself
to
keep away

from you. I used
to write about you. I
used to look on you;
used to be near

to you.

Motion is really just
a fear. A mechanism worn
well and caked as a
quote on my lips,
the language I speak
has never been the same as
you.

And you.

You
never
saw
me
through
the gaze
I gave

to you.

It's all just forward
sparks now. Bemused
and blasé, hands in pockets,
it is not in the choreography
of my story to look back

at you.