CONTROL

Imagine our legs tangled up and twisted together like tree branches, for we are made of the same bark- we grew from the same roots. Let me water your parched soil and watch your dehydrated leaves thank me by dazzling emerald in the August sunshine.

I am haunted by the number 53, by the place where I suppose both of our worlds stopped spinning. And you, your hair blew in the wind that day like sand being carried out to sea, forever out of reach.

It is a sunny day, and I am writing a poem for a dead boy who I loved enough to chase across the country. And maybe you are the breeze coming off the bay, letting me know that where you are, you’re okay. But maybe I am just a wishful thinker.

I try to see the world through your eyes, committing snapshots of the scenery that you once called home to memory. And even though we cannot be in the same place at the same time, this is as close as I can get to you- darling I am trying.

While I am not blind to the weight that you once carried, I’d have taken more than my share and crawled across deserts without water. I’d tattoo promises on your wrists; your neck, so you would never forget that I am trudging along beside you. And maybe you would still have stumbled, as I know I so often do, but at least I would have had the chance to save you.

It is a sunny day and I am writing a poem for a dead boy- etching it into my lungs, and screaming it to the sky. I recite it to an empty auditorium. You know my love could make it rain in the Sahara; make it pour and put an end to every draught. But I can’t bring you back from oblivion, to declare war on your myriad doubts.

One day, maybe soon, I’m going to meet you, and though I will not be able to hold your hands, together we can be a thunderstorm. Count the seconds between each lightning bolt like it’s the spaces between our fingers, like we are two parallel lines that can go on forever and not collide.