you are the improbable things
you are the tremor of my shoulders that continues past the limits of my body until it fades
like an echo in the air
you are the rounded shape of the heavy words in my mouth
the darkness of my accent coloring the phrases like ink as they pass through my throat
I do not choke on them as often as I used to
You are that jagged edge of skin on the side of my finger nail
the one that I know I shouldn’t pick at but do anyway in minutes of abstraction
you are like that
I am like the scab that you want to pick off
when you do so
you do it deliberately because it hurts
you don’t do it for the pain, you aren’t like that I know
it is for the blood
the blood that is clear red and hope and possibility and eventually brown flakes on a downtrodden floor

you are the blinking cursor tempting me to write
you are the blinking cursor who has just swallowed the words I wanted you to
yet still I am angry with you
I think perhaps
I wanted those words
back