Sleep on the Floor

I wonder where your image flash went to now that you got no grin, just rough girl eyes to lay bricks and close the blinds. Loved how you didn’t care who saw us hold hands, new city, you rubbed my back when I got sick and you cried and I got scared but not the kind where you run off, you were angry I didn’t get up when you left and I gestured to the sky, saying, “I used to see how this was a sea, now it’s a light show for our first dance, fireworks for our fingertips brushing, I am a prairie home companion no broken anthem batterer, I got bird bones but I dusted off my back a year ago so now no dust will settle again.” This is not a poem about me or you.

I know you wanted to die, and I wonder if you know I know, I wonder if now you know I know, I wonder if you know I get scared by stones thrown at mammals and you got boulder shoulders, do you know you are so strong, do you know I know you never needed me to tell you, will you cringe when I pain for your left shoulder still, do you know how sure I was until you broke those knuckles open on my plywood chest.

You called me once and I left a party and you were drunk and asked me what it’d look like. I said I wasn’t sure.


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