Sweetheart at St. Francis’s Hospital

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.