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.
Erik Kaisson, 2017