Poem: Your Turn
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.
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