Penetrative silence, he says,
“You’re hard to read” and
We’re trying braille
But “it hurts”, won’t break
the weighted hush upon lips
I’d rather touch than open.
“It gets better”, as motive
ulteriorly folded between sheets
tucked in with tongues and fingers,
mismatched plates and movies
he’s already watched before.
Or as mistranslated reassurance,
face value shouldn’t cost more,
he pours water, personal, I’m lying
my crown where foreign heart beats play,
parting lips, “This is nice”.
SS
In the Present 