My eye still struck down on the floor,
I catch her: her hand stumbling forward,
my feet feel the trembling of the ground under me;
give me every reflection and the city light through my gaze,
and I will throw you back at them and they will forget you;
and so you smile at me and steal back through the window and I stop looking.
I laugh at her again, chest heaving against the floor,
every distance felt so much greater: he laughs at me,
and he sinks into his chair and we leave.
but If she didn't wince with every push against her,
if my skin could call back every split,
maybe I could stop waking up dazed.
Maybe their hands, twisted upward to the sky, would stop shouting,
and the fabric hung loose from her shoulders,
maybe tomorrow she will remember it,
and my windows will fall from the impact.
Every morning it's colder,
and the biting wind on my face will keep me awake.
Leaning, his whispering back against the wall,
I glare at him: "Stop telling me that," I mutter,
the soil he threw from his hands seemed heavier then.
I watched quietly as the pavement healed over itself:
outside my window there are children shouting,
so her every sprint through my throat will be gentler,
and with the hours I will be cast back into my seat,
come render me motionless, and I'll try to remember you tomorrow.
I see her there every day, recoiling from the sunlight's grinning attack,
and the lock tapping against the door: it only confused her further,
there is whispering in the background and I try to forget its words,
but I grimace in irritation:
I strain to see her in the distance,
safely in the wall's shoulder, she was callous to it, my steps pounding against it,
and they reflect off of her, grinning at her lectures,
I glance again, every attention lost,
she skips between the cracks to avoid it.
I glance over at him, stranded in the hall,
he twists, barely noticably,
I look again and he nudges me gently, he leans on the wall, weariness,
hint at my lucidity,
and he pushes against the wall: "Stop hearing every word."
I don't think I'd bothered to listen.
I glance at her, every brush leaving the brilliant reminder against me,
"Don't be here tomorrow."
She doesn't understand: she looks at me,
stop offering resistance to every word,
stop laughing when flights twist upward,
when every line casts the sky back towards you,
the static around every word heard,
maybe then they will stop ducking behind the streetlights,
I'll be able to rest my eyes around every corner without concern,
but she will be here tomorrow. |
