November 1st
The sun was swallowed
hours ago, but the streets
are safe now –
the world isn’t scary anymore.
I walk by the suburban-forest
palaces, orange and purple
lights hanging groggy welcomes
from last night. A few drops
land on my jacket
every few seconds, clinging
uselessly for blocks.
My steps are machinery.
Moving feels safer –
my surroundings rearrange,
the people walk by
and forget the girl
in green pants
with a fleeting smile.
A small fire is stoked
at the base of my throat,
making me mumble,
with the pious
urgency of a monk,
the reasons I should let you go.
I map escape routes
into the moving streets,
my heart one giant goodbye.
I think I have always
been reluctant to let
the world touch me.
I see handprints all over you.
I cannot fathom
the volumes held by your heart.
When you pull me in like smoke,
sometimes your tired lungs
cough me out again.
When you touch me,
it is with the weight of a world
that can be tender
or terror. When I step back,
I do not recognize myself
in daylight.