Poem: Your Turn

chess game

You ask what my tongue would feel like,

but I don’t have a suitable answer.

No, not now.  Maybe, never.

 

These games you play, alone at night,

I hear about them the next morning.

Let me know when they stop.

 

You ask where my hands would rest,

but I can’t tell you.

The lights are on and the wall is up.

 

If I swing a hammer to it,

you might see I do care for you beyond

what a person should.

 

You ask why I resist looking through,

fiercely without thought.

Face to face with whispers.

 

If I stay too long in this indulgence.

I might lose my way again,

and we need control.

 

You ask why I don’t turn away,

after the accumulation of dried tears.

It never erased our future.

 

This brief pause of loneliness,

and growing patient with unkempt promises,

I still wait.

 

You ask about what I’ll do next.

I dare not give any hints, even if you beg.

No, not now.  Maybe, never.

2019

 

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