Cold air caught inside
the wishful shape of lungs,
gently constricted
like a lie told to soothe.
I'd like to touch someone.
To touch without taking,
without leaving that mark—
indelibly delicate,
that promise to someday
leave them more alone.

It's like slipping sideways
through a crowd, a million
moments, a million mouths
pink and orange in the summer
rain, mingling fingersweat.
Nobody belongs to me,
and the crowd least of all—
the crowd has always
belonged to itself.

If I drove more slowly,
happenstance might catch me,
turn my head toward
the glitterchime of a pay phone,
connecting me with chance
and the warmth of a voice
willing to be touched.

I've planted an orchard in my head,
bursting with jewelfruit,
casting its harvest
in a heavy sparkled gloaming.   
I am so pregnant with prescience,
these whistling words spilling
like steam, pulled into shape
with a lips' puff,
smoke-ring miracles each one.
But I am still cold air, unmingled,
the question mark of loneliness
on my neck
like a kiss, lightly
burning like absinthe.

I am companioned
by the shape of
no one there; I drive too fast,
I avoid crowds.
The pay phone is ringing,
but never for me.