There are morning crows on the splintered fences, yakking and pushing each other around. The first crunches of ice on the ground, these cheap boots that let the water in.
I want this all to be over. I want it only to begin.
I long to reach in to the gut and the lungs and the mess of it. Hold it still, keep it all exactly as it is.
There is a Christmas tree in the bedroom now, the kind that makes slow patterns on the wall. Crackling war songs and changing colours as she sleeps.
I can still hear your sighs in my ear, contented, though a continent apart. It was never enough for me, but I chased it willingly. And I hate to admit it, but these feelings I blame entirely on you clamber only from my own swollen heart.
Sometimes there is so little inside, I can take in everything and not be brought down.
Sometimes there is so much outside I don’t know how it all fits and why this kaleidoscope world doesn’t burst or shatter like a glass under flame.
I want silence, pristine and fresh. I want so much noise I cannot hear me.
I pray, for her, for the swiftness of death but I want her never to leave.
I want so many impossible things.
Those nights we spoke in secret and my words altered your breath. Bugs bouncing against leaning lanterns on the wild forest floor. A sleeping child pressed close to my breast
and I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore.