When I send off towards the side of your ear an earnest,
is that what you’ve brought? and you position yourself to better
figure out your answer, I don’t come and say, hi, are you
okay? so you do the come part while I still don’t say it—

just look towards you with my ghost-girl eyes,
but you don’t talk past the side of my chin.
When I don’t offer, I finished the drink I was guzzling,
you don’t do whatever you never do,

but hahaha, this is not a sad poem, because when I don’t resort
to pressing thanks into your arm as I walk away and turn
down my face, I also don’t say, I appreciate you, so when
you don’t ask, why? I don’t respond, I don’t always know

the particular reason. That’s why I always tilt my head
at you—I want to know what it is I’m appreciating. But
I don’t mention that, because you never ask, which
of course could be because it’s as obvious a thing as I am.

first published by Querencia Press