l'amour a distance
we love like vagrants, ours a truck stop romance, ours all the vagaries of runaway time: us a roadside motel, us a highway map, us a crumpled collection of interstate lines. ours a vagabondish worship of the distances we drive. and all the violence of longing, is that yours or is it mine? and the vacancies in my body, are they yours or are they mine?
The clock is noisily ticking by -it's been hours since you last replied, but I keep checking my phone, just in case- the shadows thicken, darkness blooms around me like a graveyard garden, and my eyes keep shooting around, ears hungrily waiting for a sign of your text- but the silence laughs mockingly and harsh as I slowly fall asleep- phone still tightly held in my grasp.
dear sarah, i wonder if sometimes you can still feel the weight of your bed sheet around your neck. heaven knows there were days i could count every thread. last night i was cleaning up my desk, and i found the scissors i used to crack my skin open four years ago and when i went to throw them out, it felt like moving mountains or graves. if you don’t know yet, you’ll learn that some types of grief leave scars—some ghosts don’t know how to stay buried. you will stumble through the rest of your life wondering if you will one day forget how it feels to toe the edge of the cliff and turn the other way. the answer is no
'nothing' is a raptor
*** Listen to me read this piece: When I tell you "it's nothing" you usually hear: the clouds are dark and rough like elephant skin and I'm caught up in the folds of an ear, tangled and desperate for relief but unsure how to flip myself an escape. You usually hear: the world is still turning on its axis and I am left breathless, breaking.... broken in more ways than I can count on my hands, broken in more ways than I can put a name to, broken in more ways than I can ever explain. It's not that simple, really. Really, "nothing" is a raptor dragging furrows down my sides, screaming unintelligible. "nothing" is horseshoes and handgrenade