i
if i had stronger will i would make a cage out of my
fingers and stitch my knuckles together like some sort of fisherman's net;
lately i find myself licking my teeth until my tongue dries up along with my throat.
sometimes our hands just can't move fast enough; sometimes gravity works too hard
and too sharp. sometimes friendship is like a stone that sinks into the sand
and washes away with stormwater. how can i miss you if you're still here?
ii
people always leave she says.
people always cry into your shoulder and peel themselves away like putty
that doesn't stick; like your arms are shaking them inside out and when
your friendship is done and over and forgotten they're laid out
long like empty corn husks she says.
people are like water because they scramble themselves up
just to fit the countenance of the week she says.
iii
you're a myth in my house. we tell you around
the fireplace and the little kids say you're sparks and fumes.
we watch you outside a fogged up window and trace
your path in blight and ice. you freeze, turn
solid and tangible for tingling
tenths of a second, then the heat kicks in and
you melt and drip down the slanted panes like
a rainstorm. everything is water to me:
us; the story; you.
