So, insecure, he loves and love
Is insecure, gives less than he expects.
There are splinters in your voice
that snap when you talk to me
as though the air could break
its tread upon them
and glass in your eyes
that could crack
as soon as you look
Your touches are as faint as dust against my skin,
making me question whether they were there at all,
making me afraid to stir in case they drift like snow.
you treat me
like a prize
won in confusion.
Although there is certainty in my touch,
they only taste questions on your skin.
At night, I feel your glances like ghosts on my skin
and the footsteps of fear pacing your body
and think that this is how I see you:
trapped behind the cupboard doors of her memory,
glancing out at the happiness she hid from you like a child at a sweetshop,
unsure whether to trust the luck you’ve been given
or whether you should send it running so you won’t be tempted again.
© Keighley Perkins