i: leave the door unlocked
you are:
the song in my head
the weather report
breakfast, lunch, and dinner
and every dirty martini i’ve ever had.
you are:
the presents under the tree
a case of cheap wine
the feathers in my pillows
shiny new shoes
i am:
a blank page
my winter scarf
the salt in your sweat
a song on repeat
i am:
an orange sky
sweet champagne
a million applications
the spare spoon
i: leave the door unlocked
you: have another beer
i have this lump in my throat that refuses to budge.
it gets worse when i sit down to write, like there’s something i need to say,
but i can’t quite find it. it’s living somewhere in my body, maybe right behind my eyelids, making all of my systems function a few degrees from where they should.
my heart’s a little bit confused, i think.
there’s this strange communication among my body parts—
i tend to walk in the wrong direction when i’m thinking about you.
“she wants to know if i love her, that’s all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet.”