As if it was fever. The ground shifting

beneath my rug while all day long I slept.

Waiting for you to call back, I was

pleasant and pretty; I wanted to ask you

where you were, it was, yes, I think

January, I wanted to talk to you about the

leaves shifting colors, but that was then,

and this is now, and it's harder to stay

silent about things you can't keep,

like shorelines breaking against collarbones,

barreling into translation, something like 

爱—no, what I actually mean is
something like 碍, and perhaps for once
I wanted to tell you that it’s quite nice
nowadays: how it’s 80 degrees out and the
ice cubes in your fridge are still holding
metal in their bodies, how water always
flows back to its source, everything a
goodbye—like how the boy I was loving
loved me and sent me Five Guys during
our breakup just for trying, all the while I
secretly knew I was the fool, I wanted
too much in this weather when really it’s
far too warm for both of us, and how I
didn’t know of my existence until I bled
and bled; whereas last night I dreamt
though there was no hurt, no remains
but everything simply slowed to concavity,
and while we’re at it I suppose I’ll tell you
about our aquarium date months ago,
how the betta fish in your cracked tank
are suffocating, I’ll ask you how your
mother is, if she’s enjoying what I
scratched the price tag off of, that, finally,
at the end of January I returned
to my bathroom at 1 am & shattered
my face into the sink, washed the blood
clean after of course, how could I not,
but, in the end you know how it is,
y’know?