Withered Wishes

“i’m sorry” is [apparent-
ly] just not a word
my ears deserve to hear. my heart
is the only echo-
location: displacement facility.
check my vitals. they are still
signing: dump your guilt.
here.

Reconstruction of a Self

His arms respond to my thoughts.
A new chill replaces my shivering.
Did I thing too loud? He must understand
I am [not] weak. He smiles. I can
hear his eyes laughing. He read that too.
My mind is his canvas. He is re-painting
me in humorous hues. And I can see
myself there, in this new mirror
shaped like him. And I am enjoying
the merriment as it splashes across my skin.
Joining the communicative silence, I meld
my lips to his. I understand words
are incidental. This is the true language
of time.

Profile: AJ Huffman