questionnaire
We’ve wasted perfectly good midnights -
Watching streams of consciousness go down
Two separate drains, sleeping away from each other,
Not even touching frail tailbones —
I still choke on bones of contention.
Is this gap between us widening beyond the six inches
Our parents had, and— somehow was that healthier
When they hadn’t convinced each other that
They were as close as 'close' should be—
Is this denial something mixed in the pink of youth?
And is there something I’m still doing wrong
Filling bottles after bottles watching them overflow
And then still watch, unseeing, as
The tediousness of 'same old' brims over
And crashes me out of my unconscious dithering.
Have I put too much above you
And is this something you unknowingly signed up for
And now stare quietly with feet submerged in
Silent waves, frothing, vacuous bubbles,
While I still write blankly when I can't anymore
