Tracenda

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.