I think of you as porcelain, he says—
All elegant and white.
Oh yes, I see, she says—
Brittle, cold and tight.
He sees her as a wonder of survival,
Precious, dear.
She sees herself as isolate,
And him, too near.
Although they’ve fooled around, it seems
They’ve yet to really touch.
I love you, she says, rhetorically—
And he says nothing much.
—Mary Lynn Archibald ©2019
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