i used to write in barren singed meadows in the summertime.

i used to write about the moon
        hanging shadows on and around my neck;
the cacti shriveling blisters in death valley;
      
imaginary summer superstorms
& neurotransmitters:
        pulses and a lack thereof.

i wrote about punctuation
and the ghosts i’d talk to in circles;
     sepia-stained,

i inked over them in ugly neons and called it art
and wouldn’t rest until they danced:
       sparks against the tips of my fingers like
                   shocks against warm sheets in winter
as i wrapped myself up,
      invisible and silent.

you’re not a poem
and that’s why i love you--

you make language lost
and paragraphs to abandoned sudoku puzzles

now my saccades pivot only to the blank spaces between
your words and your eyes and the cool komorebi(those leaves
bordering the sky of ghosts i disappeared so impossibly easily)

after you leave i sit and let my hands go numb
let my hands melt the iced latte you bought me
     when my throat was shut and shivering
     when i was quiet and charred and gaping at the window
           & still waiting for icicles long sublimated to strike

but now i go to bed with the room cold
because i know it’s the only way you can fall asleep

and i’m silent on purpose so i don’t wake us up