These Hands Feel Tied

The golden tones of the late afternoon have long ago faded.
We’re staring deep into the dome above us and losing our trains of thoughts,
holding plastic cups of cheap white wine.
As if pausing to reflect on the perfect answer to some unanswered question
our togetherness feels charged, impatient.
It’s terribly quiet and we’re pretending we’re not anxious.
No, we’re not wondering what the other is thinking.
A cruel and lasting suspension of ourselves separates all.
Time ticks on and although we’re standing still
it’s like we’re falling back.
We waste the night holding our tongues, together.

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One thought on “These Hands Feel Tied

  1. Jingle says:

    being independent thinker is cool.

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