i can see where this ends -
slamming doors and shouting matches
and nights spent alone
or the slow decline of a flame
love dying out to embers of resentment
on nights when i can’t be touched
without feeling ghosts in my sheets
i can see where this ends -
if you fall down deep enough
all you get is a broken arm
and dirt under your fingernails
the rabbithole doesn’t keep you warm or safe
only in the dark
staring up at a patch of sky small enough
to cover with your thumb
(your hand, on top of mine)
when was the last time i felt so helpless?
you came out of nowhere
dragged me into the light
kicking and screaming
and denying my heart
(did i need to, after all?)
to keep you away from me
to keep you from slipping off the cliff
when i was already at the bottom
without even knowing
i can see where this ends -
the cold caress of morning
between sheets and skin
coffee and tea in equal amounts
the haze of new england
or the pacific northwest
pencils and pens tapping on wood
distracted brush of lips on flyaway hair
tracing freckles like constellations
chasing the scent of leather and ink
(do i need to finish?)
do i need to tell you where we end
when we haven’t even begun
to map out the pages of each other’s skin
or thumb through the volumes of our past
stopping to pause and smile at a photograph
or a hastily scrawled note
in the margins
take a moment to wonder
if maybe this was meant to happen
(i never thought i could say it again)
if you want
i can tell you
where this begins