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quiet on the telephone.

-

-

-

-

-

how strange it is

to be everything

nothing

and the in between

all at once

to feel blood

pump ignorantly

march

up your chest on a Tuesday

and to skip breakfast

on Thursday

because the tears wouldn’t stop

-

-

-

how strange it is

to be nothing

and everything

and the spindly

thin bits between

—

how strange it is

to be everything

and nothing

and the white lines

chalky and thick

dividing the two

-

how strange it is

to not know the next word

to hope the right word

fixes anything

and to know

the truth

vigilant and cold

between the two

-

how strange it is

to know love

and know

the thudding of silence

heavy and white

bent and tall

between it all

-

how strange it is

to know what you meant

after all these years

to forget the warmth

of your skin

and to remember

clad in all black and silver

impenetrable

the seconds

the cold steady rain

the last time

you left

-

how strange it is

to be numb enough to fill a boat

to be a cliche

to be so melodramatic

they turn this into an opera

-

how strange it is

to think of your body

bright and electric

under the shimmering hum

of the lamp at two

and ignore your calls

just the same

-

how strange it is to be

everything and nothing at all

to be a tin can on a string

to be a threat and a promise

all at once