When we were not much younger,
we'd lay on our backs in the grass and look up to the sky, you and I making shapes in the clouds and seeing how elephants became rabbits as easily as actions become habits. You were new, corduroy pressed against spaces not meant for us, not dressed in innocence and common sense was far away from us then. I looked at you like a thing without a place, or a feeling that didn't quite fit. For every moment of passion there is a passive understanding amidst the insidious sense of urgency that comes when you realize you're in places you're not supposed to be and you are bound to be discovered.
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I still don't
like waking up in the middle of the night only to find that you are still not here; it doesn't feel safe to stay in spaces that cannot contain you. Keep yourself
in good condition, so that when people come to borrow you, they find that you are ready to be taken. I wear you out like words,
and can't help but notice that your name feels the same, resting on the tip of my tongue as your palm feels against the back of my neck, moving upwards until the shapes of the letters run into and over each other, and I remember that once you have gone back to a place enough times, it no longer feels like home. |
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November 2019
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