disconnection

This disconnection
is a cobweb on our fingers.
You don't know me
(not really, no)
one bit.

Words.
Not just between us,
but between you.

How?
how?

There is love, and
here are walls.
Here, there,
there, here;
but more latter than former.
Spotlight jumps
flickering gray
like the static
of my favorite radio station.

It's never too late,
except
for
us.


_____
copyright Miss Erin McIntosh, 2009
please do not reprint without permission
Poetry Friday roundup at Under the Covers