i am coiled like a snake on the kitchen floor,
i wait for you to swing open the kitchen door,
my breathing is shallow.
soon enough the screams that i have kept hidden under my eyelids
will start to reflect in my bloodshot eyes.
my sadness traces a chalked outline of my body, like it wants answers,
i have none to offer, except for my mediocrity,
the overdramatic stage entry of my melancholy,
i find words but they’re too heavy,
they feel like they’ve been used to describe apocalypses and burning monuments,
they sound too familiar and i’ve forever been afraid of strangers.
i am lost like a broken seashell along the shores of the sea of your all encompassing presence.
i want to wait,
i want to live,
i want to try to touch every ray of the sun that drowns into your sweat and every moon that has stolen your shine;
but i can not.
my fears aren’t at the bottom of your sea,
they are at the other end of it.
so i make myself comfortable with the insignificance of my absence,
this unsolicited abstinence;
i only crave to touch your skin without you slipping away from my fingers;
have you ever dusted off sand from sunburned forearms?
it feels like i’ve been doing it for too long.
i’m lying, crying, spilling blood all over the kitchen floor,
i try to picture you standing at the kitchen door,
hoping you’d remind me that i’ve missed seasons of your skin and i’ll tell you
i was busy making your side of the bed, just so you could collapse like a tidal wave against my toes,
but it’s late;
for me to ask you to return,
for me to try to get up, walk to an old telephone booth,
call my past and say,
‘tell them you love them before they forget that you do’.