You’re a man now, I guess.
In silence, a whisper
is an echoed shout
across a chasm wider than
bedsheets and blankets.
A canyon I wish I could cross,
to pull her close, feel two
become one– cotton
and blood– but I burned
my tenderness in seventeen
seconds of numb
self-consciousness.
Backs facing each other,
we play pretend
a little while longer.
Quiet breaths concealing
life. In morning’s
steel she’ll leave,
hair tied up– a wilted daisy.
A whisper in an empty
room is too late.
I was more of a man before.
[Note: This piece first appeared in Volume 55, Issue 2 of Wisconsin Review]