When we sit together here
I think about the distance
that is held within these few inches.
How so short a distance
can seem so impassable.
Why do we never fully say the words
we mean to say?
We try to catch them in our throats
and the tails come out as whispers;
ghosts of what they were meant to be.
Except for the daggers.
They come out whole and angry.
I am covered in cuts and lashes,
but I still do not know what you mean
or if you meant it.