austin/dehlia

on the way home from drinking coffee 

a woman laughs into her cellphone. 

it makes me thing of an old man 

taking his last rasping breaths: 

rushed hoping to announce its presence 

and delay some inevitable outcome. 

my feet drag, my blood slows. 

i feel it turning corners in my body, 

waiting for warmth: 

you come bursting in 

through the front door. 

bringing in with you 

the chill and smells that followed you home. 

i wish i could slow it all down, 

if my breath were in direct correlation with time - i would never breathe again. 

there you stand at the front door 

and the air is stuck in my lungs. 

my mouth is open like a fish 

with a newly set hook. 

the air around me is hard and dense 

like a single pane of glass 

you holding the door, 

me my breath. 

you don’t get this way 

overnight. 

you don’t stay this way by 

choice. 

coiled springs lay one 

against the other 

need never happens 

by choice nor overnight, 

but someone’s willingness to leave does. 

the horizon unravels quickly 

when freedom is at stake. 

need won’t stay overnight 

and choices are the mornings 

unwanted guests. 

the horizon is your back. 

the rising sun is my open mouth. 

beside you, the air is still/sharp glass. 

your breath holding back time. 

i release my breath slowly. 

so your mouth is forced to take its time 

inching across my back. 

i feel the last of these minutes, 

i put them like clothes 

and I keep them. 

i wear them out. 

you: the keeper of our small and sacred things: 

in the corner next to the books, 

neatly stacked kisses. 

the heat we created at night, 

stored until needed next winter. 

each sigh, gently cupped in your strong hands. 

even the slightest flinch. 

you’ve collected, kept safe. 

knotted twice. 

left alone. 

the corner of my mouth 

slowly moving. 

you’ve gone idle, 

bones stacked under 

muscles stacked beneath 

you-lying there, 

receding into the 

twisting of the sheets, 

escaping through the 

yellowed floral pattern below. 

now is a good time. 

body still except for the 

the slight rise of your chest 

with each inhale. 

now. 

i plant little seeds 

scattered on the contours, 

lost in the soft curls. 

they cannot escape. 

now is a good time - you’ve gone idle. 

now is a good time - i’d never breathe again. 

now is a good time. 

the smallest flinch. 

the sacred things. 

the pane of glass. 

over night we unravel. 

the neat stacks. 

push away/against. 

every breath that wills to move us. 

in idle: the devil has done his work. 

i try on your worn clothes made from our minutes together. 

the sleeves fall long over my little hands-

i do not feel so threatening. 

i will stumble instead of walk. 

get in bed with optimism-

just lying there-

going to waste in a heap 

under the window. 

collapsable versions of your usual walk. 

all edges - you are a crisp paper cut-out 

strung in front of my face 

arguing my disillusionment, back 

leaving it burrowed permanently 

in the strips of scraped hardwood. 

it’s often you give that look 

like you are surprised to see me here. 

plotted from above, the constellation 

of my journeys always leading to you. 

bare floor isn’t hitting rock bottom, 

its just where we’ve chosen to build our bed. 

soft landing and we still have everything to gain. 

dry goods and untouched piano keys-

our words sound this way coming out. 

a world of neat rows of refusal. 

we put meaning in it. 

it dries out. 

the seeds 

disappointment left behind 

as a footnote in this history. 

we are possible. 

need watering.