A WINDOW THAT SEES
THROUGH TWO HOUSES
there's nothing quite like the way the night
rips you into pieces. there is a ladled-out moon
above us that drips syrup onto the streets,
the dribbles of it caught in uneven pavement
and the sweet untouched bottoms of my socks.
lately i've been teaching myself a thing or two
about time traveling, how my head becomes a wormhole
for my thoughts to slip through and how
my memories of you pass through me with little more
than a shivering ripple, how houses bend
when the wind blows hard enough and how
light can pass through glass in complete darkness
to make it feel like the house isn't there at all.
i think about what it would be like to bend you back
into something unfamiliar, a body of my own shaping--
lately it hurts more to imagine you are a stranger
rather than a destroyer. i am time-cracked
occasionally, and time-shaken always,
and saying your name feels like a ritual
for a god i haven't found yet. it is important
to understand what hurt me and disregard
what left me the same. it is important to remember
that i am not the same.
THE HEAVIEST RAIN WE EVER HAD
it’s another evening of fading light
with another dip in the mattress, worn.
the body-shaped cavern misses your skin
in a way i can’t compete with.
another night of looking at the bookcase
and feeling the spines, the smooth ridges,
of watching sirens blink past the window
in satellite patterns, a new orbit
where no one gets hurt. in my sleep
i feel you sit on the end of the bed
and can’t bring myself to look.
i hear the tap on the glass, again,
the morning made solid by a world other than ours.
i look at the dip in the mattress for hours
and find it hard to separate it from its inherent
coffin shape, a cradle for a body now gone.
i am crowded by your absence. i feel you
back me into the corner of the room
with your swelling breath. i hear the floor
creak and the walls moan and i press my palms
to the drywall in an attempt to be read.
but it’s another night falling asleep to the rain,
the downpour of an earth shaken by you, too.
i think the window panes might shatter.
i think the house might float away.
i think i might never breathe again if i could reach for
that dip in the mattress and feel your weight.
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