All these words that circle swooping.
The pills I debate starting.
How we learn to ask for help.
If I could live all my moments in the bright blush of summer, in heat that bakes the marrow of my bones. His hand that finds mine despite the odds, tucks me safe in his pocket. Stock still in the ocean like twin buoys bobbing. Rocks that the waves crash against. Parting the sea.
I break against the jostling. The crowd that never ceases and the masked faces that painted, all begin to look the same. Lining the streets like busking pantomimes.
Wondering if, ever, I really knew you. If any of us know each other. What knowing is, anyway.
I begin to learn. The fingers that pluck at the strings of me. The ease of placing a piece that fits.
I can sit, removed, on a wooden dock and listen to the world’s voices carried down. I can house all their complaints, tall tales, prejudices, and petty jealousies. If the fire burns and the night comes.
If he sits with me, my feet in his lap and lets me rest a while.
If I take a breath and a pill with water before bed.
A hand outstretched.