the light is humming
on your fingertips, but
but i think my mind
is playing tricks again—

you are not here,
you do not love me.

last night, i watched
the ghost of you
carry bodies safe to shore.
you grunted and groaned,
your hands and ankles trembling.

i watched until dawn,
until you called out my name.

some days i cannot even
present myself to you.
some days i cannot even
be the one you love the most.

it was like last night all over again:
you call out for me,
the light in your eyes—
and i, in the dark,
knowing that if i listen closer,
i’ll only hear a mouthful of absence.

now as i stand here, by the shore—
the light on your fingertips,
my mind still playing tricks on me—
i know you’ve been gone elsewhere.

i know you’re not here,
i know you do not intend to stay.

we carry this hunger
with such carefulness
that they think we've become animals—
famished and on the run.

and indeed we are.
we trudged through woods
as though the light overhead
will always follow us.

we pretend that the dead
do not hear the noise
underneath the earth.

but even the willing
can be reckless.
at night, when the stars are alive,
you will leave me.
the sun will be dripping from your tongue,
but you will leave no trace.

when i wake up,
the light playing with the leaves,
i'll pretend not to go around in circles.
i'll pretend that this is not what you wanted.

because when you left
with the universe humming in your chest,
you forgot about the storm in my sleeves.

you forgot that in the afternoon, i'll be six feet under,
with the ocean in my lungs.

and that we carry this hunger
as though we're a pack of wolves.
as though the graveyards
do not hear the pleas of the night sky.

in the morning, you will find your way,
your stomach growling,
and my hands waiting—an endless void.

the cold helps me remember.
at night, when i stare at a blank screen,
i pretend the warmth
is merely a distraction
from the pain that is imminent.
this is how we bleed:
the act alone is an inevitable threat.
you ask me, do you dream?
and i never know.
i tore the papers in two,
in four—
when i lose count,
i let the night air seep through me.
that's when i realize.
i think i saw you last night.
you were enveloped in white sheets.
the wall behind you was as pale as your face.
you were murmuring;
we were both asleep. but
i was there, and i saw
you huddled in white,
your breaths barely audible, and
your temples streaked with sweat.
i saw you,
and you didn't see me.
when i woke up,
i gasped and hid under the covers.
you never saw me.
you never saw me.
the cold makes me remember.
even in the dream,
you were alive.
you were real.
in the dream,
i was cold. and i remembered
you do not know
i was there.
just like now—the cold is in me,
the blank screen glaring at my face,
and you in my mind.

when the morning comes,
there will be a ceremony waiting
at your doorstep.

you will hear no knocks.
there will be no people.
there will most likely
be no music and drinks.

instead, in here, in the morning,
you'll find a chest heaving
with repressed sighs and cries.

remember when i pretended i didn't see you
offer your hand when
i was trying to get down from behind the car?
or when i didn't look at you
when we were at the pool,
and you gave me a hopeful glance?

i'm sorry—
this is when i want to say
that i wanted to touch your fingertips,
hold the hand that always moved
with such ease and grace.

at the moment,
even though i don't want to admit it
(i still will),
i didn't think i deserved it.

i didn't think i was meant for it.

because here, in this morning,
when you open the door,
i will be looking at the ground,
the silence throbbing between us,
and pretend again
that i do not see you.

that i do not feel for you.

this is how this ceremony will go.

this is how my defeat sounds like.

i hope that,
despite this morning,
you will accept it.

and we'll both be here in this
collective noise and these in-betweens.
just like the times when
we were in the car and at the pool—

we were never here.

*for g