Gray
I’m not buoyant without you.
Thoughts strangle each other
As they come into apperception
And are quickly drowned
With interpretations.
I never meant for this to
Eventuate
-I never thought it would.
But we will be cured
Together or apart.
I am an earthquake in your arms
Each tremble and shake
My heart races with anxiety
That this could be the last time
I find myself here.
I don’t know who to talk to
I don’t know where to go
You’ve been my life
And all that I’ve known
But the time has come to let you
go.
Echo
It would not sound so deep
Were it a Firmamental
Product—
Airs no Oceans keep—
—Emily Dickinson
Afloat between your
lens
and your gaze,
the last consideration to
go
across my gray
matter
and its
salubrious
deliquescence
is
whether or not I’ll
swim,
whether I’ll be able to
breathe,
whether I’ll live like
before.
I’m caught in the
bubble
of your breath.
It locks me in.
Drives me mad.
Confined to speak
alone,
I talk and
listen,
ask questions and answer
myself.
I hum, I think I
sing,
I breathe in, breathe in and don’t
explode.
I’m no one.
Behind the wall
of hydrogen and
oxygen,
very clear, almost
illuminated,
you allow me to
think
that the Root of the Wind is
Water
and the
atmosphere
smells of salt and microbes and
intimacy.
And in that instant
comes
the low echo
of a beyond
beyond,
a language archaic and
soaked
in syllables and accents
suited
for
re-de-trans-forming,
giving light,
giving birth to
melanin
hidden within another
skin:
the hollow echo of the
voice
which speaks
alone.
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