Don't Wanna Talk

 
 
I've woke again to the annoyance of humanity
at a time I don't care to acknowledge.
My neck's still bent from yesterday's axe
that couldn't swing quite hard enough.
 
I don't wanna talk; don't wanna  
bend my tongue with words
to describe the insoluble.
 
She doesn't need to look into my eyes
to see I don't wanna talk, touch
or taste her breath trespassing mine.
 
I'm sick. Sick and miserable.
It's afternoon and I finally open my curtains
and it's raining; thick rain. So thick
that it's the only thing visible.
 
I wonder how happy Jonah would've been
to have a window for the plankton
to splatter and smear their insides down.
 
She grabs me, grabs hard at my attention
right in front of the window that no one can see.
She says nothing, she knows today I'm sick.  
Sick and miserable.
 
Now I want to see and touch.
I wanna force my breath straight through her
and hear her, but I don't wanna talk,
so we both settle for a rainy day
relieved that the window, keeps out whales and reality.