Make yourself at home,
You always do.”
I am bewildered by his thoughts,
By his choice of words,
By the way he does not understand himself, but understands the world around him so clearly and definitively.
He counts the number of tiles on his ceiling, knows their shape, each speckle is committed to his memory.
But in contrast, he sees through me,
He hears my words. But he does not take them in, he does not soak in me as I do with him.
I do not understand a single fragment of his being,
I long for his longing, and stubborn for his lips against mine.
But he only seems to come in nervous speech and a tangled tongue.
And he will not let me kiss him anymore.