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poetry's reply
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"poetry's reply"
I hear your ants —
their soft feet tapping the inside of my skull,
counting the cracks.
Truth is only the name we give
to the lie we can stand beside without choking.
The ballroom is empty now,
but the gown keeps swaying in a draft
no one admits is there.
In the folds of my palm,
a match, unlit —
enough to promise warmth
but not enough to scare the dark.
And still, I say,
Love you —
not as an answer,
but as a rope tossed into the air
for both of us to catch.
.
.
