83

i feel translucent

carved out like the inside of a pumpkin

propped up by pillows

i cannot feel anything else

in my headphones

i am listening to the sound of rain

wanting to slide so far down into my bed

that i can no longer see any light

later, in a city street

resting wearisome limbs over wearisome limbs

we speak of things

with breaths shallow and urgent

words like water that wanted to return

to oceans, rivers, lakes

our bodies together

defined by the negative spaces

i say that

touching you is like putting your hand through smoke

creating waves upon waves of echos

then

something about

skin deflated

the tree above us sheds its leaves

we feel them on our jackets like tiny pins

there are palms pressing upwards into spines

whispering into your neck

"there are some things that i will keep forever"

later, the sensation of needles