Certainly not in love
but not without the feeling’s precision,
questions marks are
strewn about the freshly-mopped floor,
sticking to moistened skin.
Kind gestures are tacky
and unneeded- the curved marks
keep sticking to the skin,
unable to be swept up and
sewn into answers, formulas.
Rhythms left unnoticed
suddenly are neon and bold,
forcing the sharpened edges of
the mysteries to dig deeper
into foot-heels and hand-palms.
These crazed patterns point
to remedies based on pride
and adaptation; an insane
tenaciousness, like a tick,
creates strange tendencies.
Shamelessness, and astute,
genuine, peaceful conversation
both do nothing to appease
the questions leftover, thrown
like breadcrumbs for children.
Quiet, inverse operations
battle the way things should be;
what’s left of the mystery
can only be solved by pure
interest and sincere action.
