storming.

it’s storming out and he’s sick in my bed, sleeping, so close i could touch him. and i could, i might, i will when i’m done. every now & then lightning flashes and it fills my apartment. it doesn’t disturb us. i can write by the light of the aquarium.

all of a sudden sensitivity, to the sounds of some other body, alert to each subtle change between breaths, each lift of a chest. neighbours come home & concern me. i fear sound from their steps in the hall. if i had nothing to worry about it would keep me up all night. i drink coffee too late. i also take breaths.

actually, the room is dark and empty. just me and two goldfish. it isn’t storming or even raining. there is nothing close enough to touch, and i might be sleeping.

an afternoon with you
is a maniac with a hammer

i don’t understand television or
cooking macaroni
so we don’t
and you don’t believe

the better parts of my dead
skin land in your hands
because there is
no place else.

but every place that there is
we have been to,
tearing the celings with
fingers and nails, chipping
the bricks and forcing our arms
through the beams

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