What is a name,
if we are two stones - one to polish the other?
Not to be crumpled and cast off, like a used sundry,
a paper-towel, the facets and folds stuck together with
human glue.
At what point do I forget the salty
human glue that would drip from your nose
as you lusted over my physical form?
Or the clear intentions that would roll
down your smooth, extended arm
as we tossed and turned?

In that moment, as I close my eyes, my feelings
become the entirety of my experience.
But do I feel for something known, catalogued,
identifiable?
Records
Receipts
Traces to prove anything at all?

Each hard little lump of sleet
stacks upon the last,
and coats a mineral-like stucco.
Encrusted, hand-in-hand, lifeless and frozen-over.
A stasis encases us.
Am I to pry
my torn, sensitive pads away from
your lukewarm adhesion?
Or are you to warm up, and polish yourself off,
and face with indignity the extent to which this is
your experience?
Crafted by the purveyor of a most exclusive understanding?