I open the back door and sit in its frame with my fever running high, enough to make my cheeks feel
pink & unsteady and every time I think it hurts,
it hurts to think about how much I feel but how little I say. I don’t give you what you give me
and you can’t give me what I give you, so
I distract myself with the jumble of the yard. Like how half the garage lights have burnt out in time for
the end of summer.
For the fourth time today, I think I will faint. I’m lazy, I’m sad, or maybe I’m a bit of both?
When I make a noise in protest, the cat licks his paw and peers at me. No
thoughts. My brain starts running through shaky images like nobody’s business, like
<< white peach juice dripping down your hand and falling onto the floor; I’m chopping
the cherry tomatoes that my mother grew with a blunt knife while you play Johnny B. Goode
on my guitar; I’m cooking the pasta and adding too much salt, but you eat it anyways, then you
leave, you’ve left, and there is something sitting stagnant in my heart –– >>
it’s so sad to think that I might never tell you what I always mean to say & that’s what’s heavy.
Like today at work a customer wore a Lucy Dacus shirt and I wondered if it was from the concert that
we went to last month, but when you asked me if
anything interesting happened at work today?
twice
both times I said not really
& it wasn’t until many hours later that I remembered and brought it to you under the
low hum of a streetlight. Earlier when you asked, all I could think about was how much I
love it at
my parents’ house ––
but now I’m texting my boss
_I’m not doing well_
and I’m dreaming about your fresh haircut that I snipped in front of a TV’s glow
and when I look into the yard the flowers turn their eyes away from me.
And now the sun is lighting up the trees
with its last triumph of the day,
and it’s beautiful,
but it’s just another day gone from my grasp.
And after it’s all disassembled in my mind,
it’ll reassemble again,
and you will be there,
giving me another chance to say
what I haven’t yet said to you
pink & unsteady and every time I think it hurts,
it hurts to think about how much I feel but how little I say. I don’t give you what you give me
and you can’t give me what I give you, so
I distract myself with the jumble of the yard. Like how half the garage lights have burnt out in time for
the end of summer.
For the fourth time today, I think I will faint. I’m lazy, I’m sad, or maybe I’m a bit of both?
When I make a noise in protest, the cat licks his paw and peers at me. No
thoughts. My brain starts running through shaky images like nobody’s business, like
<< white peach juice dripping down your hand and falling onto the floor; I’m chopping
the cherry tomatoes that my mother grew with a blunt knife while you play Johnny B. Goode
on my guitar; I’m cooking the pasta and adding too much salt, but you eat it anyways, then you
leave, you’ve left, and there is something sitting stagnant in my heart –– >>
it’s so sad to think that I might never tell you what I always mean to say & that’s what’s heavy.
Like today at work a customer wore a Lucy Dacus shirt and I wondered if it was from the concert that
we went to last month, but when you asked me if
anything interesting happened at work today?
twice
both times I said not really
& it wasn’t until many hours later that I remembered and brought it to you under the
low hum of a streetlight. Earlier when you asked, all I could think about was how much I
love it at
my parents’ house ––
but now I’m texting my boss
_I’m not doing well_
and I’m dreaming about your fresh haircut that I snipped in front of a TV’s glow
and when I look into the yard the flowers turn their eyes away from me.
And now the sun is lighting up the trees
with its last triumph of the day,
and it’s beautiful,
but it’s just another day gone from my grasp.
And after it’s all disassembled in my mind,
it’ll reassemble again,
and you will be there,
giving me another chance to say
what I haven’t yet said to you
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