I sometimes hold my breath
between my ask and your reply.
You divide us. Cut us with your silence, your white noise.
I know that it annoys when the black keys aren’t employed.
I know the invention of a feeling, of watching paint peeling,
waiting for you to emote a feeling.
I know the feeling of being led by a string of carrots.
I know what it means to be teased.
I also know the means of a release.
I’ll just have to type you out of my bloodstream.