I press myself dutifully against the creases
of my first sofa, curling pink toes and taking
a breath here and there because I cannot rely on
the increased intensity of our 2AM releases while
we’re both so grounded in not exactly knowing how
to spell something other than “astronaut” after
they continue to ask us what we’ll come back as
when there are no more shops selling milkshakes
within the hours we both gasped at just how good
it feels to wear everything backwards (everything).
slow it down, the lights don’t sleep like you
assume I can’t, and this is unusually fine with me
as you stub your toe on tables in ways I don’t
understand like the laws of physics multiplying in
heat while anyone with pity says my fear and lukewarm
speechlessness run to each corner of my faded paper
brain that’s more like a balloon skidding across a
sandy road with the shortest string trailing behind.
making the most of what brevity rustles on your
front porch and the flimsy reminders of old windowsills.
that’s all we have to do, and we will be just fine.