I’m stumbling around in the dark
When you clutch my shoulders.
(I’m probably thirsty,
Or going to ***.)
“I love you so much,”
I hear you say.
“I’m so sorry.”
And I think I hear tears in your voice.
And maybe it’s my tequila and benadryl,
Or your whiskey and coke,
But probably it’s both.
“Forever,”
I hear myself say,
And I know you feel tears on my face.
“Forever.”
And you refill my water while I *** in the dark.

And in the morning
I roll out
My old mat.
And on it
I gather
My stray
Yearnings
Concerns
Memories
Regrets
Hopes
Et cetera,
Making room
For them to thrash
And reach
And tumble about
Without taking me with them.

Your brows
Draw tight
Darkening rings
Below those icy blues,
And I watch
You seep
From view,
Refusing
To be probed.

Her eyes close slightly,
And her lashes
Obscure
His offers
For connection.
She smiles
And her lips
***** barriers
She can huddle behind
If she gets very small.
She draws him close
And her sighs
Drown out
Her gasps for air.
But if he notices aloud,
The squinting, or smiling, or *******,
And how something’s a little bit different,
She might not stay to be seen.

Sometimes
I see
Evidence
In your text messages
That you are lost
But not enough evidence
To tell me where.

A smile
Creeps
Into her eyes
Before her cheeks
Draw
And her lips
Curl
And her words
Bring forth
The unexpected.
And they laugh
At the rightness
And the wrongness
Juxtaposed
And binding them
Together.

She stumbles
And swings
Along
A tightrope
Of yearning
And panic
And relief,
Grasping for the coat sleeves
And purses
And ponytails
Of those
Who get
So close
Yet walk
With ease.

She watches
His shapely shoulders shift
As he washes their dishes
And hums
A bar
She can’t recall
Quite well enough
To join.

“And sometimes,”
She notes,
“We are easy.”

It’s offhand,
The comment
That first stills
Her heart
Then sends it
Tumbling
Her breath
Attempting traction
Attempting grip.

And he knows
She lies
When she answers
“Fine.”

She floods
Her skin
With intention,
“Be here.”
She wills
Herself
Back.
Backs away
From the lure
Of stories
That make
The hurt
Make sense.
(Stories
That make
The hurt.)
And his smell
Is familiar
And sweet.

She starts
Between toes
In the webbing,
Touching down,
Between
Stable
Moments,
Two fists
And last breaths
Before she unfolds,
Unpeels,
And tumbles into sleep.

At first
He didn’t
Know
How
His words
Cinched
Tight around
Her throat,
Extracted
Air
From her lungs
Slowly
Until
She was taut
And vacant.
But then
He learned
Words
As
Weapons
He found
He couldn’t
Help
But wield.