Monday, January 3

(she holds her breath.)

i heard my heart that night, sometime between four and five.
i learned to float and believed I was alive. I drifted in and out of sleep.
i knew nothing but that I was not alone,
everything and not- i bank on that you do not understand.
this is a record i keep.
this is my last hour on dry land.
i am about to jump, are you sure you want to hold my hand?

do not leave me! i cannot float alone.
i have spent a thousand years, red-eyed in bed,
staring at the phone.
i am not talking to him.
i am about to jump, do you know how to swim?

don't let go. perhaps, if you hold on tight,
we might learn to float together, and this could be alright.
they might say it is cruelty
to drag you in to this - what it is, i do not know.
i am about to jump. you might want to let go.

look, i'm done. you might have seen
a glimpse of me while i lived, but now i am a ghost.
the scraps of love you get are leftovers, at most.
sometimes i trick myself that i still know how to feel.
it's indulgent. later on i learn that it's not permanent, or real.

what is it i aspire to? to be unstrung?
to sick, lay dripping, unwrapped,
my lives unsung? my torn packaging around me like a paper dress.
who wants to tie their stars to this?
this is not a life, at least not anymore.
i look behind me.
she holds her breath...

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