I don’t handle pressure well
The pressure of a hand upon my shoulder
Of fingers around my neck
Or a head in my lap
Of a gaze staring back

I am a puddle on the sidewalk
Afraid of too many footfalls
To send one ear this way and my arms that way
Of ripples ripping the pictures from the halls
Like goosebumps on the walls
To read what I’ve written on my skin

I’m learning to not cringe when hugged
To learn to take that sly drug
Whereby these mass distances are reduced to atomic scales
Where your fingerprints bond to mine
Where no one can tell who carried out the crime
Yet I’m assuming we’ve done something wrong

You don’t see water until you see waves
But I’d rather not be defined by mere disturbance
Those feet leave footprints on the pavement
Evaporate through the sun’s many straws
Sucked dry
Tumble dry
We dry our clothes in the basement
And my mother tells me not to lean on her because it makes her itchy

Strength is measured in the length of your shadow
(I know to cry in a hole behind the shed;
Because water is too good at filling spaces)
And she says our house is small.
How many places can I be if I let you step through me

I don’t know how to handle pressure
Besides the crunching of calculator keys
and the crushing of bumble bees
with barbecue tongs
Perception worth more than paper
More than the ticker tape on your ankle bracelet
Why can’t our fingers be frugal
Sensation is a different specie for the human species
Yet we’d rather save dollars than pounds

Stand tall, sit tight
On a sliding scale, where gravity pushes knees to eyes and heads to roll
Are all properties of calm and cool lost to this collection bowl

It took a month for me to touch your hair
Two to hold your hand on the back lawn
Three to feel your face with my eyes closed
Did I not kiss you because I thought the summer
Would stretch on and on
Or because I feared I’d make your surface ripple
And then disappear
This puddle is ignorant of the outstretched sea
Fingers fumble along coats of roped arms
To catch fish that don’t drink air
When is love just a drawn out stare
Because I hear David Bowie in my ear:
“This is our last dance
This is ourselves…”

At what point does that
pressure point
become a touch and not a tear