Gaps

You come to me
with a thorn in your hand,
you call to me from a distant glass house
and I know
I’ve missed something
between the white silence and sleep,
between your palm and my own;
I realize
I must have missed something
betwixt your old and new self
perhaps too many years ago,
long before the disruption of the universe;

but when everything has passed and turned to stone,
that hidden gap will finally materialize
into a bridge between your silence and insomnia,
between your palm and these shards of glass;
and maybe you’ll fix this broken mirror
and maybe turn it into a lake,
an oasis in the middle of the desert
where our stoic hands succumb.