That.

that you knew
I could not speak

my hands at most
comfort in corners

or rested on the spines
of other people’s lovers

in typeset curled
and timed to perfection

that you knew I had
been given to weeping

around the sutures
wove where horizons

burst vermillion
before the deepest black

and that you knew
I had no words for that

nor paint, nor song
but only touch

only touch had rolled
its skin around my edges

the way each precipice
hugs its leaper

that you knew
this and stayed

that

This poem appears in


Pass it Along

© Brendan Bonsack
April 2016