Seen,
but not heard.
Ghosted? Ignored?
A wall of stones to pen me in:
you say you felt nothing—
yet your racing heartbeat sticks in my memory.
A whole different kind of heat,
I have felt the morning sun.
Whether glance, gaze, or stare:
bedside lamp’s warming glare
to deep-black quiet, hush
of your soothéd breathing:
like newness, each breath’s intaking.
Each rising,
falling, rising
of the chest,
each setting of your suns upon mine
to reverse-gloaming, deep warmth. Again.
You felt nothing? You cannot tell me that,
and yet you do.
Your hand on my knee
the night of the Infinite Wrench,
rounding out a full month of Pride.
(Perhaps I was just the last resort,
the least-special Special Thing
to cap a month nonplussed.)
The way you used to meet my eye,
fuck,
that look— how could I forget?
How could you?
Seen. Not heard;
no response, only aching
and longing commingling,
tired of the endless sine waves and binary
coded language, please tell me queer stories
and connect me to my history;
zeroes and ones only,
dyad of the lonely, and I:
a placeholder now unpaired.
You told me you loved me.
