My hand clamps the handle,
ready to pull.
Resistance hits my arm.
Why? Was it something I said?
Did he not like the color of my sweater?
Caramel and bleached stitching
coming together, hand in hand.
Or did my shoes remind him of another
who slammed him so hard
that he never wanted to be touched again?
The dulled look of his exterior,
mixed gray and brown
Found on the palette of a painter
starved and craving affection.
Is the door an artist
Creaking to be seen?
A painting without a gallery.
I place my palm upon his frame,
touching him as he touched me.
Could he feel my warmth?
Or is he heating up his handle
warding away my fingers.
Does he think I’m like the rest?
The mildew film atop wood finish.
Maggots caught in the second coat of paint.
He should know best of all.
The moon’s breeze can chill
lovers, stuck in a foot of snow
just as fast as the sun’s can scorch
eyes picking at his splinters.
I’ll let his metal burn me,
maybe I’ll burn him back.
Shared white scripted scars
will make him understand.
We’ve both felt far worse.