listen—
this is just the way it is

I see your headlights in the drive-thru
last winter
in the camera lens tonight

this is not personal, you said
you cried, thinking it was dark enough
voice steady (if you focused on the radio)
not personal, but permanent
and I was in no position to argue

lately, I haven’t had much that I’ve ached to tell you
—that feels a little personal—
and I only remember when certain angles of light
hit me like a freight train
after the sun goes down

sometimes I close my eyes
imagine I’m blind
shapes and light veiled, soft
day and night melting, overlapping
rain and sun both bright

words you said and hums you
may have made
I can’t remember, now
memory and vision criss-cross
past and daydream clasping hands

when I open them, you dissipate
each time I call you back
growing warmer

when I think about the color of my eyes
I think of blue-green
I think of gray, sometimes, when I’m feeling replaceable
I usually don’t think of the red
veins twisting through white
or the red veil covering all of it in the morning
when I blink awake
enervated by all the waking I did in the dark
instead of resting

when I think about the color of your eyes
if I’m being honest
I can’t remember what it was

dividing time by years made sense for the aztecs
they clocked the cycle had begun anew
the ice had melted just like before
they guessed—crossing all their fingers—
that it would again

walt whitman divided time by breaths
his line breaks echoing his full throat

cross-legged on new year’s morning,
I think that I don’t want to divide time at all
just one long hum
to keep the beat

your voice is vertical somehow
mine is hoarse, still

I remember shouting
into pillows, hardly muted
playing back your new york inflections
like a cassette

constructive critiques
transcribed in your palm lines
obscured by clenched muscles
I didn’t know what was written on the last page

I do now
it’s not much

I keep you close by.

it’s by the book to watch,
to tether, to keep you walking straight—
I believe in order—but
I can’t say aloud that that’s not why

whispered, barely:
it's, instead, because
without locks, I think you’d go
if I looked away, I’m afraid you’d go

I want to go back to that dream
where you touched my palm
and I kept it quiet
where no one saw me stopping short
while you were close behind
barely there

now, your electric fingertips
keep me awake
the details blur, and
I want to crawl inside that dream
and sleep till noon