Over the line at 3am,
you said, “There’s this sinking feeling in the pit of my chest.
I’m choking on sand and sort of anchored
by fear. I am the edge of the earth that is sinking
beneath me.
I want to explain how it feels, but it doesn’t get better.”
I’m here.
“I want to be run through muddy grass, to be bled
through someone’s veins and turn red
at my first taste of oxygen.
I want to be that comfort that is familiar and shocking
each and every time. Every time like a new feeling.
Every time unlike the first.”
You can’t turn back time, but you know we’ll keep trying.
Anything you need.
“You know, it’s this time of night that always gets to me.
This time that’s a longing for someone— or something.
It’s these stars that are burning
my fingertips.
I want to be hung up on a wall and shown off to all your friends.
Look at me in the darkness and tell me I’m beautiful at four am.
Carry me in your wallet, like I always do
for you.
Tell me you miss me sometimes when I feel myself disappearing.
Scream my name
so that the Earth shakes
and I can feel your voice before I
hear it. Let me echo and be the sky.”
You get quiet.
What is it?
“I swear,
somewhere,
a plane has crashed into the side of an icy mountain.
I want to be there. I want to cascade down arteries.
Can you feel me the way I feel you?”
I’m sorry to say
that I don’t feel a thing.
“Such a shame.
I am your avalanche of catastrophic porportions.
I am the sobs of the families longing for another chance to see you.
I am the unstoppable force crashing into the immovable stone.”
Strange how thin we can be
around this time of night. Is this really happening?
“I don’t know. We’ll see in the morning.”