Manhattanhenge

You weren't as much birthed in love as confusion. Reaching twenty carelessly, assessing measures you've been choosing to communicate. Like bats lash out in blinded flight. Living vicariously by listening instead of sight. And is that possible? I mean, you've been blindfolded before, but what's the difference blindness makes when touching him is all you care about anymore? There might not be much to the two of you inside except the mutual desire to hold a hand that's actually alive. Your own are like driftwood, bloated and made unusual by the stagnant waters only rippled by dissatisfied sighs loud enough to hear so he gets a cue to change, but even if he does, it just reminds him things are still the same. You shouldn't have to be anything more than what you want to, but the feeling of not living up to something is haunting you

Your hands may be clutching at flesh and warm reluctantly, walking down the street together, displaying proudly the fact that flesh on flesh is confidence, and though the intentions clear, there's always going to be a touching that one finds more sincere. You didn't know the sinews of your back say 'I love you' with his fingernails etching urgently 'I trust you'. But conversation is dead, the tree of topics withered with frost unlike the yellow-green hues of summer passion, sun-soaked moments hopelessly lost. And that's goodnight, whether or not you believe it. Instead of saying nothing, your silence becomes your secret