gabs

Even in our silence, there is still sound. We are haunted by the sounds of yesterday —from your euphoria at seeing the sun and the touch of me. You echo all throughout my mind. In the darkest of nights, you’ve shown me the stars.

“Baby, look! There’s one blinking right there!”

It’s a satellite, but I won’t tell you that. It can be a star for you, and therefore, me as well. I know where the stars are when they’re not in the sky. They outline your face like they do tonight —over the bounce of your cheeks, the bumps on your nose, the slight furrow of your brow. They bathe my home in light.

As we lay here on this floor, some of your hair falls in your face, moving with every exhale. I don’t dare move it; I don’t dare move you. We exist in time. We exist in this time, in this place, with the croaking frogs, whirring fan, and the frigidness of our exposed, curling toes. We exist together, yet it remains a mystery to me what you think of. What you see. What do you see as we lay here? What do you think of as your finger caresses the floor? I see you. I like to think if I lay still enough, I will see the contractions of your heart. I will see the division of your cells; I will see the continuous cycle of life in you.

Reminiscence lies here with us. Directly in front of my face, it stretches, ebbs, and flows into the perfect mask for me. When I look through, I am grateful to still see you. I am grateful to walk behind as you command this song —yours. As you command me —yours. Your leg moves slightly and I remember our rides —in the park, in the bed, we rode. We ride. I would ride into the grandest ocean for you, darling.

I love our love. I love when it is loud, when it is quiet, when only we can feel. I love our love as we lie here, so close, our souls have their arms outstretched. We are so close we share breath.

As we lay here, doomed for eternity, sentenced to drown in this River Styx, sentenced to burn in their eternal flames, I feel warmth. I find solace in the zephyr of you. I will still make a home with you and we will lie on the floor there, together, sharing breath.

Even in our silence, there is still sound. We are haunted by the sounds of yesterday —from your euphoria at seeing the sun and the touch of me. You echo all throughout my mind. In the darkest of nights, you’ve shown me the stars.

“Baby, look! There’s one blinking right there!”

It’s a satellite, but I won’t tell you that. It can be a star for you, and therefore, me as well. I know where the stars are when they’re not in the sky. They outline your face like they do tonight —over the bounce of your cheeks, the bumps on your nose, the slight furrow of your brow. They bathe my home in light.

As we lay here on this floor, some of your hair falls in your face, moving with every exhale. I don’t dare move it; I don’t dare move you. We exist in time. We exist in this time, in this place, with the croaking frogs, whirring fan, and the frigidness of our exposed, curling toes. We exist together, yet it remains a mystery to me what you think of. What you see. What do you see as we lay here? What do you think of as your finger caresses the floor? I see you. I like to think if I lay still enough, I will see the contractions of your heart. I will see the division of your cells; I will see the continuous cycle of life in you.

Reminiscence lies here with us. Directly in front of my face, it stretches, ebbs, and flows into the perfect mask for me. When I look through, I am grateful to still see you. I am grateful to walk behind as you command this song —yours. As you command me —yours. Your leg moves slightly and I remember our rides —in the park, in the bed, we rode. We ride. I would ride into the grandest ocean for you, darling.

I love our love. I love when it is loud, when it is quiet, when only we can feel. I love our love as we lie here, so close, our souls have their arms outstretched. We are so close we share breath.

As we lay here, doomed for eternity, sentenced to drown in this River Styx, sentenced to burn in their eternal flames, I feel warmth. I find solace in the zephyr of you. I will still make a home with you and we will lie on the floor there, together, sharing breath.

1:32 AM

you stretched in your sleep

and rested your head on my shoulder—

like the way a tired moon settles

on the edge of the horizon

just before dawn remembers it needs to rise

some time last week

your laughter bubbled out

of you

like a pot boiling over

to make the sweetest kind of mess

at annie’s funeral

i held your hand so tight

you could feel my heartbeat waver

and you whispered that grief

is just love reborn

first date

you tapped your finger on the table

every time i asked about yourself

and when i asked about it

you looked at your hand

and your cheeks went pink

last sunday

we argued the whole day

but i woke up with

your apology warm against my spine

and forgiveness learning my shape

marie’s birthday

we spent in hour in the store

choosing a bow

for a gift that cost ten minutes

but somehow

the bow meant more

econ class

your water bottle fell in the silent room

and you let out a laugh

big enough to swallow all fear

the library on monday after we failed our final

we laughed so hard we almost got kicked out

somehow, that failure felt

like the greatest victory

10:05 am

the sun glided her finger

down your nose

and paused to admire

the morning caught in your eyes–

i understood then why people

believe in gentle gods

the man in the grocery store

he dropped his Chessmen Butter Cookies

and you remembered i said i liked them,

begged to make them at home

i smiled

when you walked away

he whispered to me

that people like you

are rare constellations

that sailors navigate by

to the mirror

you watch as lines plump to curves

and back to lines

and you let yourself soften

like warm dough rising

then settle again

like breath after laughter

to me

you said my pen

would never sleep

but you didn’t know

you woke it up

now on the beach

you wrote our initials in the sand

then laughed when the waves took them

and i wondered how many versions of us

the tide has already carried away

you said, “it’s okay–things don’t disappear

if we remember them”

and in case one day

we don’t

i wrote all this down