I can’t tell if it’s me or you this time around,
but I swear I can taste the distance:
thick air choking the moments we share,
questions I won’t ask
eye contact you won’t make
both of us silent,
sleeping back to back.
I wake suddenly,
kiss your side,
you rise slowly,
kiss my neck,
and in the morning
we pretend it never happened.
There are two towels in the bathroom now
since we stopped sharing
curdle above coffee
as the clock stares at us
wondering who will excuse themselves first.
The elephant quivers in the corner
believing it’s his fault no one’s ever home,
that the air has turned heavy as lead,
the taste of iron on our tongues
as you give silent answers
to the questions I don’t ask.