there’s something
to not knowing
why your eyes are closed
whether you can
if it matters                      you read it right
when you’re smoothing out the creases
not quite sure if they’ll bounce back                      or burn
somehow the iron finds a place
making beds and warming towels
that dash down empty halls
to dry off the wetness of shower walls
where we perform the ritual of being alive
shaking out regiments we left unattended
for the moments I kissed your cheek
and reminded you                                       attentive
that I was there               as you liked
to watch you didn’t cut yourself while shaving
off your holiday
and thinking things I couldn’t guess
because I’m learning
when I stroke your head
or steal your shirt
or smirk at some unsuccessed denial I make
I see nothing in your eyes to tell me otherwise
if it made sense or not                 to you
who plans your days in leaving
places and progress thumb to nose
aware of all us curious goers who don’t see the world you do
when I was 25 did I make more sense to you?
or was I still clueless
when I arrived in two halves of a state and eyed up your tattoos
do you know I’m writing?
or does it not occur that I might think so deeply about someone
I never knew
I’d have to try so hard to know


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