Mia

She was still draped delicately across the armchair
When our words lapped and receded like not quite waves,
Entreating silence to stir her
Like strings tugging at muscles
Connected to our eyelids so everything flickers:
We are entrenched now he and I,
Stopped still in our soliloquy
We listen.

Her eyelashes tremble as secret ideas germinate
Deep somewhere beneath the sleep.

My attention falters
From the thread at the end of my sleeve,
Jumping quickly onto the slope of her gently rising little chest
Drawn helplessly into the slight little lips
Pulling shallow little breaths
Into moist little exhales,
Like not quite sighs
For all the worries you didn’t know about.

And here my focus reattaches,
My clever replies failing me now:
Slipping down between us standing here
Is the bump in the road that jolts me,
The love you know that eludes me.

Her serene brow furrowed in concern of dreamy matters,
You seem to carry the conscience that eases her
And in the hopes of stable footing
Find comfort in the beliefs of her.
Having knelt down now as we stare
Silent
You turn to me,
The fingers of one tiny little hand
hanging limply off the edge of yours
You say to me.

“I don’t understand this, look at this.
Even now all ten of her fingers, she has fingerprints.
Little tiny fingerprints”

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