*
he asks why I’m quiet,
and before I answer him
I try to answer myself:
there are enough words,
but each one
weighs less
than the slow rise and fall
of his breath.
*
in the kitchen,
he sits with his back to me,
and the window light
falls across his shoulders,
gently splitting them
into two clean angles
I can’t look away from.
*
he steps inside
as if the floor
hasn’t quite settled yet,
or maybe it’s me,
still waiting for morning
to bring the room into focus.
*
we sit across from each other,
and something in the way
he holds my gaze
pulls the space tighter
between us.
out of focus
© Copyright: Эл Стайнберг, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125122300183
Свидетельство о публикации №125122300183
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