i try to gargle salt for you just

to see if you exist between molecules.

but you do not raise your hand or speak

or pull yourself from the inside of a thrift store baseball cap.

so i write you instead.

i write you into morning eyes, sleep hazy in the corners.

into froth and sip and burnt tongues.

into honey-coated berries, ripe from nothing.

into some meadow, high and above it all.

flowers pungent as they weave between breaths,

breaths humid and silent as they

brush against wax petals.

most days i write you into things that disappear.

sometimes i write you into concrete.

i am either not alone or impossibly. nothing lingers.

right

good, they say. good, who deserves love, really?

why should anyone be loved, really?

isn’t it better if love sugars only the hands of a few, anyway?

not you, anyway. never you, anyway.

and maybe i am just as rage driven and envious.

maybe i do put my hands on the wheel only to crash.

because when you leave, all reason leaves with you.

suddenly i am aching teeth and blackberry limbs, only.

i inhale. inhale. face bloodred and salted.

scream, take me with you.

and it is so big in such an empty space. it echoes on.

i think i hear the walls whisper,

they were right. they were right. they were right.

and the floors groan and laugh with them.

but the windows stay closed. the doors stay closed.

still, i am a puddle. waiting.

maybe they were right. maybe love is an escape room.

maybe i am the thing that needs escaping.

it is a growling tickle in my stomach.

this knowledge, this coaxed truth:

it did not stay like i thought it would.

not for me, anyway. never for me, anyway.

citrus

anger makes it easier to say

the lemon words,

the swollen sentences.

makes it easier to throw punches

without the memory of bruised skin.

you lick your lips and i

come away infuriated.

we will wake up tomorrow

sore and sour.

but i will empty the whole

ice tray into my water glass

before you make it

to the kitchen.

and i will leave lemon slices,

tart and lonely,

around the house.

and i will let

your cheek blister purple

before i ever admit

to the taste of citrus.

mountains

big, unmovable things:

like mountains,

like desire.

stand still

your voice leaves me quiet.

it echoes. (again and again.)

i want to tell you settle down.

i want to tell you there is no need

for all this loud.

forget your restlessness.

but i say nothing.

so the cobwebs

stretch and weave

with vigor.

the muscles stop

their clench and unravel.

my throat grows

blue-black icicle veins.

my throat becomes its own island.

my throat does not flag down

the rescue team.

my throat sees help and

stands still.

every time.

strange thing

this heart is deeply, deeply hidden.

like an old wooden box under the bed