I wonder if I ever did the same for you.

What kind of love is just an impulse to you

I could never tell if you felt

Compelled or obligated

To look at me the way you did.


Your lidded eyes,

staring through.

Lulling me.


I know what this is

And I had a feeling

I just thought this would work.

The first time you told me, I trusted you.


We’ll stay friends

Of course we’ll stay friends

When this first started we were friends

You asked me. I thought it would be sweet.



Sandalwood snapshots of our Sunday
skin intertwined fingers
clasping each dancing spec of
floating whispers
pedals of your kiss
rolling down rays of
6:22, fat moments are few
billowing threads of sinful barricade
between reality and the
chapter book I have found in your
under these covers we press
sinking into our own sentences,
claiming true reality.

                                                        …whispering good morning.


the valleys and edges
                etching vowels into
inflated moments of
grasp, housing
such comfort infants instinctively
              cling to, never letting go
burying nose
to crease, cover me
whole, entirely
enveloped by surrender
into your palms, placing
warmth over the freeze
               fear had opaquely whispered
into.              this                ear.

Hold tightly fingers, I will hide and be

Your captive forever.


I can hear the tap dance of
keeping time with inconvenience,
anticipating reality.

These shadows sleeve
the rise of worry, console
the shoulders

Hiding from the gaze of
memories, avoiding the
textile framework of each
Grandfather clock’s wagging finger.

I will remain here,
unseen, avoiding the hollow
whispers, silence is my
pillow, dozing day dreams

covered by darkness.


Steven Jones