Not Much (Poetry)

There isn't much between us -
skin and bone -
sighs that slice the air,
some blood, some stone.

There isn't love to mend
or time to heal
the distance like a scar,
the wound unreal

as silence swings its thin
uneasy sword
and innocence forgives
what pain ignored.

This proximity of flesh
pressed heart to heart,
too cool to bind,
too hot to prise apart,

grows awkward in the light
of waking day -
not much excuse:
there's nothing I can say.