Half of me is asleep when you say you know the whereabouts of seven southern constellations. Eight, I almost say while thinking of those three small brown stars on your left forearm. May feels like a dream I’ve spent making husbands out of refrigerated snow. I call my mother to tell her I am still her child budding in refracted light. I touch her elbow through the phone, tell her the sharpest parts of her are my favorite ones to love. My list of things to forget about forgot to include your head thrown back like you were talking to God or trying to locate the moon. When I am lonely I Google things that are grey, I measure the circumference of an evaporating puddle of room temperature sunlight, I photograph my skin like it belongs to a stranger. In my journal I write that my hands are slowly running out of reasons not to explore the nape of your neck. My throat doesn’t know the difference between your name and a well salted risk. Letter by letter, I swallow it anyways. Watch me bite myself when you’re behind me. Tonight my chest is shedding rust and frayed ribbons. Tonight I am teaching myself how to fish this collapsing sky.
It’s weird to feel someone’s attention on you that way, like you’re the only thing in the world they’re listening to. Most of the time people are distracted, or just thinking about what they’re going to say next.