I am not a series of
timed periods.

I am no conclusion.
I am not in a hurry.
I am not a period in time.
I am not written for you.
I am a tiny quivering ellipsis
stretching wide
as I quake.
I’m hesitating

but there is nothing remiss
about obsession.
it’s core is
always actively engaged.
I stand, a long sentence
punctuated by the piqued heels of
I am

opening the bottle, looking to see
where the cap dropped.
it is sedate, watching the light flitter across your rafters.
I am walking on dry dirt in bare feet,
late June.
it is an unreachable itch in blue tights
stalling under a black globe,
shifting in snow boots,
I am ordering Indian for one.
it is asking you your meat preferences,
eyebrows raised slightly,
lips curled in furtive
I am kneeling in sweats & sports bra
to pick my Tibetan quartz off the floor.
it is partially naked, shivering without fuss,
placing glasses on your windowsill.
there is no glass of water.
you are smirking,
I am finishing undressing.
I am showing you the dressing.
it is the next morning: crisp,
it is lonely.

I’m parting my hair differently.
I’m dyeing it blond.
I’m full of mercury caps &
warnings so I’m crazy &
grinding my teeth into my gums,
bastardizing everything.
it is still a black bob,
bangs on my lashes
overdrawn in blue pencil.
I am the oxygen:
yawning, laughing,
screaming at the mirage
across my closed eyelids,
while I’m still hanging there
twinkling from your rafters,
light dancing off my sallow clavicle.
we are started.
it takes everything.
I  become

it is the  movement.
I am the fit it takes.
is contentment the space between two forms of
I say to the ceiling, not expecting
a return call, and 3:31 am, in a fetal position,
diagonal on my top sheet:
what finally becomes of feelings?
not expecting to suddenly
breathe easily or
take swift flight
in a different direction.




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