i have bitten back words
until my mouth
learned the shape of a locked room.
tracenda
the things we agree to pass over,
still set between us
like glasses neither of us
will drink from.
how carefully we speak
around the table.
how easily we call it peace
when nothing breaks.
i could tell you.
but then you would know,
and i would have to live
past the moment
your face changed.
so i ask if you’re cold.
you say a little.
i close the window.
there.
something
i can do about it.