Without a Title

June took root in the same way you learned to scream

but now it's fall and you're trying

to sing.

It slipped away from muddy lids like lifting a veil,

like stepping into a bath,

(toes, sole, calf. toes, sole, calf.)

and crawled unseen behind apartment-light echoes;

crooning sultry half-truths,

weighing down vascular walls.

My heartstrings aren't laundry lines but the conversations

we never finished (last night, last week, last year)

hang from them; pinned to sheets, unbothered.

It's pulling on my sleeves; heavy and damp.

The wind isn't howling but

I don't want to hear about the dream you had

where I was a Priest,

where I was hitchhiking,

where I cut off my hair in a taxi front seat,

and gave it to you in Ziploc bags.

A hazy sky; slow and sweet,

coats my traipsing moods like honey

and sticks to the bottom of your favorite mug

(yes, that one, with the chipped rim and your rival

high school's logo.)

We're still here, springing forward and listening.

It's growing, humming cold verses in a new language

while we watch his name take shape in the mist accidentally.

You don't mention how fiercely I'm blushing and I'm grateful I don't have to laugh it off. Some days laughing feels worse than puking.

We are still here.

We are still.

We are.

I'm looking for something important and I won't know it until I see it.

It's morning, it's warmer and we lift our chins to coastline.

I blow smoke upwind;

today physics is purely speculation.

Today I feel like secrets are extinct and I'm certain the day is so much clearer through my Atlantic eyes than their protesting embrace.

You can keep June, I'll take the sky.