I Never Heard Him Speak

His eyes catch like matches on the flares of my own
as I move like driftwood through the tides of the room,
but, though there’s sulphur sparking in his eyes, he doesn’t speak.

It feels as though we’re fumbling through something unknown
as we meet and ignite all too soon
when his eyes catch like matches on the flares of my own.

And, although I know I should, this is something I can’t atone
as I readily consent to being consumed.
And, yet, while I revel in sacrilege, he doesn’t speak.

Still, I wait for him to signal that I’m not alone
before the stilled time around us resumes
after his eyes catch like matches on the flares of my own

yet, there is nothing but a silence that seems to condone,
while, inside both of us, something begins to battle and bloom,
but, though he’s gripped in the same ignition, he doesn’t speak

and, so, I cross the threshold of a moment we seem to have outgrown,
wistful over a glance that’s already drifted like spume
because, despite his eyes catching like matches on the flares of my own,
I never heard him speak.

© Keighley Perkins

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About handshedown

Keighley Perkins is a Cardiff-based poet whose influences include Anis Mojgani, Selima Hill and Richard Brautigan. Her work has previously been published in "Acumen", "Elbow Room", "Erbacce", "Fire", "Northwind" and "Obsessed with Pipework". She can also be found online on Twitter at @handshedown. View all posts by handshedown

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