i watch the slow, exhausted drop of your shoulders,
the way you stare at your hands as if they aren't yours,
as if you're looking at a house you’ve already moved out of.
the static isn't even screaming anymore—
it’s just a flat, low hum,
the sound of a system that has given up on finding a signal,
the sound of a wire that has carried too many amps for too long.
(if you decided your world was over, you’d tell me, right?)
you’re looking at the wall as if there’s no door there,
as if you’ve finally decided that there is truly no path forward,
as if you were never meant to escape alive.
i can feel the coldness settling into your skin,
the terrifying calm of a machine
that has decided to stop fighting the current
and just let the water take the engine.
if you were standing there at the edge of the broadcast,
looking at the giant mouth of the world and deciding to step in,
if you were truly going to escape the grey noise for good—
(sorry, i mean,) you wouldn't just leave me holding an empty rind,
you wouldn't let the signal go black without a warning—
you’d give me one last transmission, a single word?
(right?)
because we built a grounding wire out of my skin,
because i took the excess voltage and i didn't flinch—
so you wouldn't just walk out of the room while my back was turned.
you wouldn't let the white noise swallow you whole
without at least saying goodbye.
(right? like, sorry, i just—)
but i look at your locked jaw, the heavy manual labor of your silence,
and the terrifying truth is that the paper can’t save us from this.
because you aren’t even looking at me anymore,
you’re looking through me.
(and my chest is starting to hitch,
because the silence is getting louder,
squeezing my throat.)
(sorry— look at me— like please, just look at me so i can anchor you.)
i am sitting right here with my hands open,
(but they are shaking now,)
the orange on the wood looks like a funeral,
(and i am screaming inside my own head)
because the words on the page
are doing absolutely nothing.
(sorry, they’re doing nothing.)
i can write a hundred lines about your survival,
i can ink a map out of my own desperation,
but these words are just graphite on a page that cannot move.
(they can’t catch you if you decide to drop.)
please.
if the days are numbered,
let me count them with you.
if you’re going to go dark,
don't make me listen to the dead air alone.
tell me you would tell me.
tell me you aren't already gone.
(i can't get it in, i can't get it down,
it’s still just white noise filling my lungs,
choking me on the words i haven't written yet.)
(just like it was that day.)
the room is spinning, the margins are closing in,
and i'm grabbing at the air like smoke,
(i'm running out of time, running out of signals.)
the pages are shaking in my fingers,
they are just paper, they are just paper,
they are nothing but dead weight on a table that is breaking.
(my chest is too tight— i’m sorry, i’m sorry—)
you have to tell me anyway.
you have to say it.
(right?)
(right??)
(right???)
the signal is crossing, the wires are tangling,
(and suddenly i am right back to that day—)
the sharp, unfocused edges of the room,
the sudden, blinding weight of the ceiling coming down.
(—and my own hands shaking so hard they don't look like mine.)
(i’m not helping, am i?
like, i’m sitting here making poetry out of your smoke
but the fire is still burning your skin and i’m sorry—
i’m so sorry, i’m not doing enough, i’m not helping.
why can’t i find the right words?)
(sorry, i’m trying, i swear i’m trying to carry the current
but i’m failing you, like— i’m just failing you—
i’m not enough to keep the house from going dark.)
(i'm sorry, i'm so sorry—)
and i am terrified that this time,
you won't let me reach through the noise
to find you.