Your Head Is a Cube

Funny. Not even
24 hours after
I tell you I don't
cry often,
I find myself
in the office bathroom
hunched over
the sink, tissue
in hand,
mascara running
into my nostril,
composure shaking
from my spine.
I wasn't planning
on smoking another
cigarette this early.
Yes, this feeling
is preverbal.
Yes, this is why
we scream
through the city
streets at night,
or make clicking
noises with our tongues,
pretend we are
wordless beasts, and roll
our eyes
with exclamation.
I want
to understand your ears
in relation
to your eyes,
chin. I want to know
how you became
so compassionate.
I want to know
how you love.
I want to know even
the darker parts of you,
the underside
of your elbow. I want
to know that this
wanting isn't
threatening,
like the salty calm
before the thunder
before the rain.

---
(k)