I line your letters beside my lipsticks.
We stare together into the mirror,
my hair, freshly washed,
the wail of the waves outside my window,
as I sweet talk sweet peas into growing in the cool ground of my desk.
I was born gratefully late,
far after they stopped ending the dreams of girls like me with ice picks.
I listen to lightning.
I know that sounds like madness,
but it has a sound,
a soft, subtle song,
and I sing along,
running in the rain,
so fast that it fades,
until it’s just our voices,
vibrating through an empty Earth.
I like when you write.
I hold the paper to my chest,
remembering the sounds you’d make,
as you fell asleep,
with me,
imprisoned in your embrace.
I was afraid of escape.
I hear it now,
as I line up your letters,
lightning laughing up above,
your breathing,
grows distant and quiet,
you clutch me closer…
But I am awake,
and all I want is to be asleep.
I listen for the lightning,
your letters,
laying on my chest,
the pills,
inside my cheek,
so I can stay anchored and alive,
reading your words back,
trying to go back,
to the days when you,
my sweetest love,
were my only captor.
