the soft skin

how can it be so much about your body
your body
your body
dark leaves against the window and
the way i feel. it doesn't seem to anybody
but me a question to be a full, full answer.
i'm battling the same thing we all do,
adolescence, this giving up game. i know.
it's learning to love the cat knocking
the phone off the bed as much as anything else
we picture you as something outside,
but you're not. i picture you outside the
window, smiling. why is smiling not considered
talking. i laid my bed on you,
didn't think i'd have to wait so long. i didn't
know how much time there was in the world,
or all the thoughts i'd have to think before i could get
inside again. but i've learned to value the leaves
we're not stars, we just shaved our legs today
none of us know anything about being others.
we've drawn the middle in this, created our
time. it will divide you, and you will not doubt it then.
you will not wonder, because
we are not possibly any different.
therefore assume the same, inside instinct we just
follow our feeling, our fucking universal
contact. the fingers
your body
the soft skin
that is it.