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