I believe I can read you
When you turn your back
Isn't the compressed arc of your vertebrae
an expression of the same
sorrow that I feel?
The downward slant from your ear
to your chin
Shoulder blades shifted forward
Aren't these invitations?
Cries of desperation?
My fingertips RSVP
But your skin twitches away from me
You push me back with the complete lack
of reception in your eyes
I guess I can't read the braille of your bones
After all
And it would be useless for me
to hang any signs
off my own spine
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