number sixteen

do not try to do too much with your own hands.

in this bright room, are you expressing love? does your slow smile mean desire or desperation, as the book falls from your lap, the carpet softening its suicide. do the wrinkles in the red pillowcase mean you cry when you sleep or never breathe? i watch you walk to me without two hands, the carpet caving before your foot falls, someone's hand at my throat, but no arm to swat at--