We strove,

for red gold links of perfection.

Your words rose

on a thermal's gentle lift

to glide over my bare feet

resting lightly on the dirty street

we called home.

I am the voice

broken on the implacable ridge of difference

Yes

and I

the face averted

to avoid further complications.

Yet we strove,

our metaphors

woven on belief in

unity and a shared breath

exhaling into a mornings soft light.

I am the division

between utterly alone

and the scrawled line in the dirt

you balance upon

Yes and I

the one who slips between

you lips and a pause

in the conversation