In a season
where hearts most resemble
dead leaves,
our offensive of indifference
is concealed
like the wind
as it permeates
the skin and swiftly
subjugates rejection.
So what, we want to spit
blindly at the seers,
if we choose to flirt
a little bit with
distance?
Is it not a fact
that repeated gestures
build significance?
So what
if our love language
turns out to be
ventriloquy?
Is it not more empowering
to perish the thought
that our wanderings
in the desert of another
were for nothing?
To still believe their slights
may yet turn out to be
that promise,
that errorless envoy
which renders angels
unnecessary?
