No.21

.

Don’t touch me.

Friendships are formed that way,

families are founded and babies begun;

bank accounts held where both know the sum.

No interest in joining the league of all nations,

the sticky interstices of human relations.

.

Don’t speak to me.

Common ground is discovered that way,

mistrust resolved, awkwardness arrested;

by chattering mass my humanity attested?

No, incautious words may prove significant,

bind us to fates unwanted and permanent.

.

Don’t see me.

Interest becomes obsession that way,

until, held captive in the cell of a heart,

It would damage us both when I pull it apart.

Don’t trust your instincts, this figment in flight

is safer dismissed, a mere trick of the light.

.

I’m not here.

Trust me, it’s better this way;

no photograph nor social-media spoor,

no wish to leave footprints in my life, or yours.

Born silently into this world, and so choose to live it;

my four-score and seven, then quietly exit.

.

 

No.21

Erik Kaisson, 2017

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