by meghan o'donnell
i watched you sleep,
and almost forgot your voice,
even though its underwater color-tones hid under each automated breath (quartz movement) and when
you spoke new words, i didn't understand them at first because they weren't
the same few syllables that I clung to.
you drew for me, once, two arrows facing each other
this is like that, or what i've understood it to be. I keep looking
at my hands and the space between the words; the space that's between everything
so that nothing's really ever touching at all.
you noticed that i bit my nails
i could eat nothing but peas, one at a time,
and even then
the salt made me choke
(i choked, jagged)
moon slivers, dead bone, scarred wood,
the work of hundreds of pairs of tap shoes
and nervous habits.
the man in the brown suit arrived (
at your bedside
you looked outside and noticed
that there aren't even windows anymore,
just gray panes where nothing happens.
he saw it in your eyes and he told you
and we'll need to clean you up from the walls.'
Originally posted at theexaminingroom.