Words
hang
in the space
between us,
shiny, unfinished sonnets.
Sometimes I ponder
plucking one out of the air,
gently placing it in your palm...
Instead
we sidestep, maneuver, shift our weight.
We pass small talk back and forth,
scraps of a conversation that was,
idle equities to fill the time.
Nothing between us has ever been small.
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