pale in envy.

when the voice, or blood,
                      or whatever
                      is clogging throat,
                       boils at room temp
                       to eyes–
                       the sticky ‘lids
                       hiding as
                       ashamed curtains
                       pulled to feet by
                       someone–
                       her–
                       the one keeping me
                       strung,
                       well-tuned,
                        but unfree to enjoy the air–
how
    repulsive
           this sight of a sickened child
           rotting in thought
           from too long an exposure,
                                      inward,
                                  of her.
thought,
           what
                 of
                   our
                       time?
alone, in stare or conference held,
         she is
            she is
            here– in front, beside, behind, around me–
if that
        time,
               that
                     solitairy fixation on
                                              us
                                           could
                                                  extend,
                                                            grab
                                                                  us
                                                                     and
                                                                          stay,
                                                                                 not run, not walk, not
                                                                                                          s
tu
mble
                                                                                                          from
                                                                                                           as so
                                                                                                           prone
                                                                                                          we let it be–
perhaps,
          just
                by chance
                         by longing
                                 we
                                    could bring to
                                                   us an envy drawn
                                                                  from other,
                                                                         an
                                                                            outside onlooker–
                                                                                        me.