In the yawn of the afternoon we must drift,
floating more like swaying from left to right
in what looks like a beautiful pirouette, but lies.
It is a plummet straight to the ground,
the pretense of a longing, I miss you kind of goodbye
when really we both won't admit to the necessity.
We both know that our proximity can sometimes burn,
and sometimes when it burns it leaves silence behind.
So we are getting better at it, this game of pretend
that we don't remember agreeing to but now
we're two tiny spiders silently weaving web after web
but never, ever talking about them as we sit amidst
their barriers, their sticky, sticky strands of distance.