We were at
Cornerstone, or in the car on the way to or fro, and all I had with me was pieces of paper from the shows going on or the seminars we attended or were going to, if it hadn't been so hot.
What you writing?
Just some lines.
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Make me malleable, smooth to slip
between your hands like a bookmark
holding the pages back
Show me how I can make change
in what I had seen as a dead end life
Make me into a suitable wife
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we are two novels
fine books with gilded edges
well worn, our leather cases creaking
we are next to each other on the shelf
unable to open ourselves up to one another
for fear of creasing pages
that in mixing up our stories
we will lose the truth
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remake this skin
over and again
layer by layer
stone and grain
changing clothes
three times a day
if that's what it takes
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Why am I afraid to look into your eyes?
What do I think is so rich and deep and
immense
that my own eyes are less so?
Just because of their color?
maybe
a few shades from you