a stop

a poem by Lonnie Monka

are all parallel lines fully disconnected

just because they don’t touch in space?

perception permits curious means of impression

at that Florentine bar of unknowns

after our lives crossed on the internet

we gradually met face to hesitant face

wafting waves of vanilla she blunted the bar musk

& I strained my vocal chords to scream

discovering the silent understanding in a stop

she smelled like my first love during sex

causing unvoiced requests for being bitten & scratched

to obsess me–to clench fistfuls of love-handles

her hand reached over to examine mine

“your intellectual line curves towards the emotional” she said

tracing my palm with her finger–“but they don’t meet”

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