on subjectivity

nothing interesting in the movement of hands,
only in what made them tremble, dance.
or the feet, 
the eyes, 
the lips, 
the head, 
the arms, 
the legs, 
the neck, 
the chest;
the only interesting thing in them,
was what picked their interest.

wait for me where I will be

I want to go out silently,
unnoticed,
like a remote village struck by a deadly disease,
a ship with no sailors,
smoke in my lungs, closed windows,
doors all shut.

I shouldn’t be appreciated,
needed,
loved– 
nor hated,
missed
or…

so I reduce friends to “People I know”
and from “People I know” I vanish entirely.

smaller than everything large

the coffee in my hand is bigger than the other side
their whole world could fit into my hand
but they exist!
small
frail
fragile– parallel worlds;
just patience and eyes
patience–
and they become.
pause–
and they appear.
and if you wait just enough,
like you,
into dust they return.