The thought in your eyes,
that doesn’t travel across your lips,
is putting space between our hands.
The bonds that tie,
in the absence of your firm grip,
are becoming weak and tattered strands.
The hope in my heart,
which doesn’t leave its cold chamber,
is securing a secret from you.
The foot on the stair,
the one that forgot how it came there,
is turned by the conclusions you drew.