I retreated from something, I retreated. I didn’t want it.

Intermittent stars of isolation, this heart drenched with

honeysuckle,

delicate with hopes and fears.

How peaceful to say, “I am contented,”

and have it be so,

and see you speak sans hesitation the moment you open your

lips.

Yet we fool each other --

“Move forward at the touch.” “Give me your certainty.”

To the end we each seek, pretending not to be tired.