Three years with the palms of my hands still struggling to feel all of your skin-
but like when a microphone gets too close to speakers, the sound is unbearable.
Twelve days I went without trying to figure out how you are.
Your friend says you're a roller coaster but I find you to be more of a circle, the ring of a key chain.
I used to believe that there was a man who lived alone in a shack
by my grandparent's home, and that the man who drove the bus to take me there
has a pet alligator who lived in his bath.
The shack was for tools, the man had a house, and Tom didn't own an alligator.
I used to think my shivering in the middle of the night would be enough to shake those screws
from my head and wake you up from the lack of screeching.
We both fought to be the speaker. While I was growing weaker
I became the microphone.
And when I refused to accept  your words into the hallows of myself
you picked up your voice and headed west
without so much as a "check check check."