someone’s sleeping, but it ain’t me.

rapport is unconscious.
by defintion...
what we have, what we share;
our gift--
is beyond our control.
and yet,
now...
again...
as I have come to expect from women such as yourself,
(if there were anyone else like you, that is)
you walk to the far side of this room
and think you are going to make this
all just disappear:
your feelings,
things you said,
your words and promises that you tattooed on my soul...
suddenly, just as bare as the blackboard
before the teacher arrives.

As if.

I heard it:
that catch in your voice
that's foreign to you;
almost like you hadn't
anticipated this echo.

I guess I'm what's called contrary.
maybe I'm mixing metaphors
but how convenient this amnesia is
and how much it excuses.