My Watson, he makes a mockery out of everything I say. His lips part and meet, subsequently exposing and concealing his slightly crooked teeth. I stretch out my fingers to teasingly brush the three inflamed stripes on his lower jaw. He backs away, shocked, and I know I’ve crossed an invisible line. I’ve touched him on the inside without taking his clothes off, moving his three faces—the one I know, the one he knows, and the one no-one knows— through his broken skin.
I went up the attic yesterday, and I
called your name. You weren’t there. So I
scrolled through, the endless posts,
in which I thought I had inscribed your presence
you weren’t there.