Muted

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.