Love Born Dull

It is love born dull

it shifts, grates week to week

because of lovers' stories.

I breathe only to reach

brief hours of vicarious living.

A precious lack

of intrigue I own; it is forgotten

as I am cozied in Their

conversations on printed pages

and blurry screen,

For those words persuade, at heart,

for a blink
--my untouched lips warm

and stationary fingers convinced

to flex into an open fist--
that I found relief also, yet it is not so.