Untitled For Jay Ii Poem by noah nomadic

it took months to get that hand
from your lap to mine
and it still sits awkward.
we fake nonchalance looking anywhere,
anywhere but there.
our story is verbal: no
tribal dances, physical romances
are for film.
our story is not told in its
technicolor glory, it is left in
notebook poetry and late night calls.
LCD screens fight with graphite gray,
your pen black ink,
not for control but truth.
no technicolor glory just a true story.