Lines In Dust
You,
never join me
when I cry.
Building piles
on the floor with stuff
you call – clutter
or junk.
Your pointer
finger – gently
draws a line
on dust.
Your head, forward –
leaning to your
right, reading?
If the tears
I shed were blood –
streaming
down my cheeks –
would you rush
to wipe the floor –
or clean
my face?