Wednesday, June 8, 2011


What was it you said? You said
something about not knowing
what it meant, and then you
wiped it away, with a tissue.
The tissue that you balled
in your fist that last time we met.
Even when I looked away, I still
saw your face. Bright it was
that day. You were sweating.
I was sweating. Maybe I should've
asked to clarify. But the balled-up
tissue in your fist distracted me.

Poor tissue, poor tissue,
how could a fragile thing like you

protect me?

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