Silence & a Pool Heater

2017

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Your lips carve out a home between my shoulder blades and you whisper for me to stay,

But I wipe off the sleep like ocean waves.

Salt sticks my eyelashes together.

The air is heavy, hanging low,

holding water it cannot,

on the verge of overflowing.

The air is warm, but the wind cuts through my denim.

Suddenly it’s hard to breathe

and I wonder when I will stop mourning the seasons.

For ten days I watched mountains and lakes and oceans sing.

I told stories of you, like I was the same person,

and I laid down in the sand,

and let my skin blister and tighten across my chest.

At night I lay awake and hold my breath.

My body radiates it’s own heat.

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Digital