[untitled 3]

there is a point where my memory halts
where the cicadas quiet in the september air
and i clamp my hands between my thighs
bite the inside of my bottom lip until i
know it’s the equivalent of pale and
not cold but close

i feel the rug under my ear and in
and my earrings catch and pinch by my hairline,
a sloppy faultline of segments, and
my eyelids are sandbagged,
drugged, tethered down with leather cords
my elbows worked in tight
though now
they nearly touch as i coddle close your
small form, line your cheek bone with mine

i’m breathing in your exhales
and inhales as if life itself was dependent on me
sleeping and falling and sleeping and falling-
you brush back my fears from my hair,
run your calloused knuckles past my eye,
and my memory halts before the cliff
like a suicidal child who reconsiders