(3/3)

I'm sure I'm
happy when I'm with you I'm
sure I'm happy when I'm with you
I'm sure I'm happy when I'm with
you're the only thing.
Am I what I am, am I
composed of anything sure when I'm not-
if I stop, stand and scream, nothing rewinds. Nothing’s heard, and nothing can be seen
except from atop, and I wonder if I’ll live the rest of my life around here
wonder which way is up,
wonder if control
isn't far from thought control like a muzzle shaped version of love that only exists in the brain.
I still feel my neck tingle as your voice lifts my hands,
edges melt, the cracks fill in, the clock's long since paused I'm super
full bellied, alight, headed to you, my stride's river's wide,
my breaths spans the Summer's scorch.
As Winters freeze and melt, my word's long since, still since, ever since hovered
over me in ink,
in deja vu, in dilated pupils, in the magnets inside our fingertips,
in bitt' lips, in evening teas, even alone,
in the impulses to check my phone, in night in morning I'm alone
in night in morning I'm alone in night in morning I'm
besides myself cradled, stuck in play, falling forward, clearing levels,
earning respect, standing still with the earth spinning ‘neathe my feet even
bathed in work and climbing rock walls, helping friends move,
trying makeup, tying relationships taut,
getting called master, getting drenched to umbrella a stranger,
choosing between family or friends, attending Donda
and crashing to a phone call from my best friend's girlfriend it's not working out,
it's really bad, it's really hard and I don't mind crying, but I'm not sure if it's enough to convince her not to,
He says he's going through some things, but he's never once told me a thing so I made karaage
and if good food could just solve all problems then my food would've. I'm here
and I'm ready to turn and twist and be there,
my sneakers are street, my suits are spiffer, my skirts are chic,
my posed look is "confident this lazy glutton's more than capable enough," though I’m bloating,
though I’m biding, though I’m hiding, though I’m only I, I’m trying.
I'm rewriting a narrative, I'm here
and I'm ready to be there, I'm past reliving the 100-days-each-day.
Just-
despite it all, wonder if it's all really me or if it's me or if it's me
or if it's me, or if I'm just observing a too-long, drawn-out epilogue, this is reality B, this is
the writing on the wall, this is
the timeline where X dies, this is
the 24-hour, bad-coffee, university cram spot diner, this is
the smell of something smoldering, this is
the rock star tinnitus, this is
the empty lot when the building should’ve been, this is
the shared memory now only you still remember, this is
the shame when you can't recall your dream, this is
the second, third and fourth attempts with the first promise, this is
when leftover idiosyncrasies become precious, this is
when your comfort zone assimilates your paranoia, this is
why you house words that can’t be seen, touched, heard, or burned, this is
the senseless hyperawareness of every part of my body that isn’t currently being held, this is
loneliness and
it is