Fudge-snacking and sludge-packing;

engines pumping sleaze,

wheeze like a lech and retch

into the gutter

and sputter

and spit,

having fits,

skin splits from

contusions,

bruises,

pus sluices

from

the damnable,

corrupted,

flesh.

You speak softly this close, breathe air into these parts of me. This closeness is like noses touching, like toes crinkling inwards that rub against carpet when no one sees. In the spaces between us we can’t see, words grow into thoughts, grow into stories no one tells. I carry your weight in these stories like memories.

 Here, in this loft, we draw out our endings

with paint, fill canvas with what we don’t say,

blend into shuffling cards at each muted sound

we rattle off, nervous.

We cling to meaning

like floss, buckle ourselves down

until we ourselves buckle under the weight of loss,

weight of words lost between us. This absence

is a wrench and with each word

we twist

farther apart.

Truth snowballs out, uncovers layers of melting ice.

Sienna sounds emerge: sun ribbons unraveling.

Each article a watered-down imprint of source.

Filament like stretch marks pulls out parts

stilled from growth, borne of stilled motion,

stretched from thorax to a vessel that holds me, more than me,

these threads extensions of what’s inside.

Words come out as proof of what’s there.

Here, with this loft as vessel, we draw our endings on sienna backdrop. The difference between paint and canvas fills up with everything we decide not to say, the difference between us loses definition with each muted space.

Here in the loft, our bed holds its breath. Cars cross quickly, moments between spaces between people—open parts covered by words. You hold onto these words like floss—dangle me like language from your tongue: free, forceful.

Cherry blossoms make barely recognizable movements, moments stilled hold telescopic streets where these trees line side borders, photographic.

The picture's centre moves, me as wind. I whisper across silenced air and speak like silence, still. I hold the pitch,  for a moment.

The forward force of wheels leaves silence spinning its dust.

Noise comes apart like ribbons unraveling; I’m left with only these words: no, not sure. Now, that lamp speaks to me louder than ever.

Now, I feel the silent presence of my me more alone than ever before.

Sun-drenched and slick, I rolodex through rosters of time, my index of memories strawberry-sweet and wet with rain. I know this spot: the line between glass and sand, anticipated air-bound momentum; pre-moment. In post, the moment becomes a memory, slicks of rain I’m wiping from my rear window with wipers as I drive, distracted, facing forward.

Voice moves up and through me like viscous char. Sun and the warm April air come in my moving window and it transforms, forms new sounds, sticks to parts inside of me, stilled at each corner on its way up. I crack in its presence.

Stackable photograph keychain holds dad's picture firmly in place. It's something I take behind me like a broken pillow, not for the memory or feeling but as an exchange for the parts of me that don't match the me she sees. 

Bathroom door opens and I'm caught, the line between my fear and her face dotted with lies, rules I tell myself to stop from being whole. My dream of me breaks apart like lemons. I offer my keychain, sealed, smooth.