ashes, roaches, tweezers, matches our hands a foot apart not touching until you pass the heavy book of Picasso paintings tapping the cover telling me without telling me the days grow shorter a candle burns slowly security in its perch atop the bottle of cheap wine (a pair of feline eyes stare through the glass top sharing perfect secrets knowing what is real) "who believes in love anymore?" you say, a provocation? an invitation? "maybe," i reply, "maybe!" if it is you who is of love and secrets perfected by scars but! you feel untouchable heavier than this table carrying questions that burn, that smoke that penetrate us, but why? i'm alive enough to know i'm near you not near enough to you to know i'm alive douglas brent smith