Lee Crosset,
I say as you stare
at me through your watery gray eyes
the ones that so insisted to devour
my notebook.

what did you see there that
caused me to be so spiteful and
sardonic, without regret?
I still wanted you to know
me, past those impersonal okays

and what you thought
of crossing those permanent
scarlet lines, touching them
so that maybe I could be
okay again?

what i have has been wrought
by blurred and corrupted images
through broken mirrors
and broken eyes

stolen forms of grace that shine through
pain with a dull light, causing rooms to
buckle and collapse

your quiet voice folds in on itself most days
and I can’t help but notice the solidity of it,
and the strain that weaves its way
as you look at me

because it hurts.