Hot Seat

I sit in the beige folding chair

across from you

and I am on fire;

Cheek-stained, a hot rose

I clear my cinched throat

to speak,

But the weight of the air

falls on my voice.

I coax, stutter,

try to charm the words

out.

“You exceed all expectations of love,”

I could hear it,

a low whisper in my ear.

The yearn of you,

the red lust, the

flannel-warmth comfort of you…

I tried to pray you away,

an atheist woman, with

a strict ban placed on love,

her burning bird-cage,

locked like a jaw.

But the grip you had was firm,

an unmoving ghost with

a fleshed fist.

I draw the curtains and

pretend the world

is blind to us.

All we can see is the

dusty light leak,

the corners of the coffee table

at our feet.

Why are we so afraid?

from my mind to yours