things are supposed to

stay still

when you do not touch them

 

the plates in the cabinet

stay stagnantly

stacked,

awaiting the next move

 

the greek yogurts

in the crisper

will remain in place –

unless mom

eats one

 

as insides

flip-flop

with fear and

procrastination

the textbooks stay

unopened

and collect

dust

 

windows stay

open

 

 

 

closed

 

paintings on the wall

align themselves as they are

for eternity

 

comforters stay

crumpled

after a night

of love

and slumber

like the peaks of

whipped egg whites.

 

things are supposed to

stay still

when you do not touch them

 

but you –

you

with your eyes

i have not met

your torso

i have not enveloped

in eons of

uncomfortable blinks

and robotic avoidance –

you writhe

like a chinese dragon

slithering this way

and that

over and

 

 

 

under

thriving so much,

I’m surprised you haven’t tied

yourself in a knot.

your eyes move

without my fingers pressed

to your

smiling crow’s feet,

you look at

her

and her

and her

and her

and her

and her

and her –

you move like

you are trying to run away.

 

but you are not

a cotton swab

i forgot to pick up off

the bathroom floor

an american flag

suspended

in time

and air

a random tampon

in the bottom

of my backseat

 

things are supposed to

stay still

when you do not touch them

 

but you –

you

are not a thing

and you

you move

like a weekend,

you move

like a brush fire –

you move

on

 

and i stay,

washing the dishes,

staring out

the

 

 

closed

window

at the

hammock in the yard –

still,

as though

it were crafted from bone

as though the air

outside

was jell-o

and wishing –

wishing

that i’ll find you

woven

over and

 

 

 

under

through the knots

back into my dimples

waiting

amidst the

oak trees.