White walls Closed books An erased name A string of numbers I measure living things By what they leave behind A use, a flaw, a trace of heat A pattern I can find The world is loud beyond the glass Too careless to be true So I remain where pages breathe And facts arrive on cue Belladonna, hemlock, aconite Old names on my tongue Arsenic, cyanide Old hymns for the nameless I do not hate the locked door I do not miss the sky A cage is only punishment To minds that need to fly I don’t call it love Love is imprecise You are not a feeling You are proof that interrupts my life Stay within my sight Where the silence stays complete If I must be contained Be the reason I remain A vial catches sterile light Cold against my skin The margin of an open book Holds what I cannot write I have studied endings well How absence takes a shape How something can disappear And still control the space Atropine, morphine Names like velvet over steel Curare, strychnine Beautiful and real I can classify a heartbeat I can read a nervous hand But when you speak my number The order fails to stand I don’t call it love Love is imprecise You are not a feeling You are proof that interrupts my life Stay within my sight Where the silence stays complete If I must be contained Be the reason I remain Do not try to name me The record has enough A name is only a marker It does not change what I am But if only your voice Leaves more than numbers behind Maybe I will turn around To verify the reason why I don’t call it love But the theorem fails with you All my perfect classifications Break and build themselves anew Stay within my sight Where the silence stays complete If I am still a prisoner Be the lock I choose myself White walls Closed books Your shadow near the light I had no reason to want anything Until that wanting took your shape
