a list of soft breaths assembled into a jenga tower, a spine filling with cool water each time you remove a block
crumbling into a 500 millisecond *** mix tape--your greatest hits condensed into a sigh--when you pull a voice you don't recognize
an "i love you" that doesn't belong
you rebuild the tower, each time with less breaths than the last
until there is nothing for you to relive.
a rainstorm that tails you silently, when you turn around--lightning that must be read in braille, a slight shock at your fingertips that arrives
after the poor english is decoded.
a type-b personality sulking furtively. guts that draw the sound out of thunder as it nervously bounces around your intestines. full, you ***** up the flash into the sky, so that you can eat your emotions again tomorrow.
quicksand that you can carry in a backpack and then empty onto someone's doorstep so that they, too, can feel the essence of a memory
that gets hardwired into your brain through repetition--and then must be vanquished through stillness and nothing.
an atlas of g-spots that shows you how to contort your words into all the right shapes, so that they fit into the brokenness of the moment