the fog was thick enough to cut, thick enough that i thought time had finally stopped
the rain from falling,
finally stopped the sky from falling
through the lines of your face
when nothing was ever enough.
knapsack and all,
the north star fades
i step over woven threads and the spools spilling from your head —
traversing an eternal blanket.
you told me of a new color.
i didn’t believe you.
should you go away from me (don’t)
i will remember you like this:
orange mist beneath streetlights, your smoky mouth, my fingertips on the stitching of your passenger seat as i attempt to drink the dewy air.
what lies beyond the fog?
a dark night’s chill, endlessly dissolving,
as i wrap myself in the warmth of your theories and fever dreams.
don’t go away from me. (but if you do —
promise not to drive so fast)
your hands slight me,
the storm encroaches,
clouding my limbs,
clouding the limbs of trees from sight; i rush, fragile
in the river of my disbelief.
tiptoeing across the crease of your eye, a sign is posted:
i slip my feet in, quiet
fool’s luck, i’m at it again
all whiplash and tummy aches, sprocket jams and pluto blues
green flash, behind on the news
swept and kept, frozen in two.