Hey. Listen.


Can you hear me breathing?
my thoughts are in piano notes
I'm thinking up a symphony of
you. It snowed yesterday and
I wondered where you were---
not in any needy kind of
way, just a curious kind of
way. Can you hear me breathing?
it sounds dense and collected, my
bike spokes click in time with your
watch because there could be years
between us but there could also be
days or hours. If you would believe
it, I can feel you on windy days
when your readiness is something
to be desired. But so much of the same
can be said for me, s o  m u c h  o f  t h e  s a m e
because maybe it was never me waiting on you


but y o u waiting on me.

you eat a lot of cucumbers.


at first you only slice them,
but then you're cutting them
in half, in quarters. You eat
them with carrots, no carrots,
with lemon pepper and salt.
You eat them in your room
with hot tea boiled to 150
degrees, in the kitchen
at the counter staring
out the window, at
the dining table
at the patterns
on the hard-
wood floor.
Is that real wood?
It could be. That doesn't
really matter. You put too
much salt on these. And
sometimes in the tub
you crouch down
and study the
curtains with
an unbridled
amount of curiosity
because you need to be
deep about at least something
but mostly you just realize that
your legs are bruised and your
cuticles sting because you bite
them so often. This water could be hotter.



This water could be hotter.

I think I've gotten accustomed to this acquired taste of anxiety.
I've got shivers travelling through my fingers
and if you look close enough it's sputtering out sparks
that could probably ignite some sort of ruthless wildfire.

Maybe it's because I've gotten so used to
these constant thoughts of how even the brightest
glimmers of gold tend to give way
and become dull at the slightest sign of ignorance.

Or maybe it's because I've gotten so used to
watching the seasons change
as quickly as those who've already left my life
and never looked back.

It's this constant badgering reminder of how life never waits for anyone
and there you are five months later wondering
how it could have gotten this cold
when you were just wearing a flimsy skirt the day before.

And I have no idea why my heart is pounding
to the rhythm of a drum I've never even heard
or why I'm already nostalgic for things I haven't even lost yet
because I can't seem to grasp onto anything without it

tearing apart
or disintegrating
or disappearing
without a last final glimpse of recognition.

I've gotten so used to holding in my goodbyes
and waiting
and waiting
and waiting until it's just
....
gone.
....

gone
like sunlight
only after five hours past noon.
gone
like that last bite of sanity
I've already digested three years ago.
gone
like that time I gave myself away
to a boy who only knew how to take.
gone
like the slightest bit of innocence I wasted
trying to hold onto something
and someone I made up so long ago.
gone
like my heart
at the slightest thought of you
changing your mind.

Please don't change your mind.

gd

The sunshine dabbles on my skin.

Pale with wistfulness. It somehow reminds me of bitten back lips and swallowed words. The sharp edges of each letter paper cut there and here.

I stay a little longer, motionless, in this hazy light.

I'll come back alive.
I will be living once more.
Just give me a pinch of time.
That will do.