i can see so much
in your expression,
the slight stiffness
in your smile
that gives away
the forcing,
the way your eyes
drift around
the room, shifting
between the books
above the fireplace
and the cat on
the windowsill,
never looking right
at me for very long.
i can hear so much
in your voice, as you
tell me that you
like it, that you'll
find a place for it
in the glass case
across from the
closet where guests
always put their coats,
or on the shelf
in your room
next to that book
(who wrote it again?
john updike?)
that you bought
for your report
in sophomore year
and never read.
my bones are alive.
they rattle, they climb
out of my body,
they walk past
the case where you
could hide behind
the trophies of
younger selves and never
be found, past the
room where updike
waits forever to be
heard by a student
who never cared much
for "serious" literature,
and onto the roof
of a house i've never
been inside. they
float up into the sky
and are never seen
again. my skin
begins to weep.
its cries bounce
off the walls of
a snow globe
containing only me
and white powder,
unshaken.