i bought a mirror that reflects only black and white
because my true colors were beginning to frighten me.
a grey glare feels more honest.  that might be a step forward.
but i cannot read a map,
and i cannot spin a globe and land my fingertip on calmer regions.

i stopped checking my answering machine
because voices have started to upset me.
i’m not sure if the happy ones irk me the most,
or if the worried whispering was what turned my teeth into dust.
i don’t miss them.  their timbres nor their content.
i am content.  and it unnerves me.

i stole my favorite book from the public library
because a few chapters needed revising.
eight and eleven i crossed out completely,
and in bold writing i made sure “The End.” was indisputable.
nothing is open to interpretation.  nothing is what i want.
to feel.  i’m almost there.
maybe.

have you forgotten me?  is this what it’s like to have late fees and untuned strings?  a muted memory of what?  of what are we?  are we so reliant on literacy that you can’t even remember my quiet?  it trembled, but only so far.  and so far it’s not far enough.  can you forget filler?  you’d think it would at least feel more empty.

we moved to jupiter for that slight chance.  we were unsettled: unpacked, unnerved.  where was the scale?  everyone, hurry, step on.
“we’re good.  it won’t come.”
a collective sigh reversed its breath into a gasp as we saw two who had the same idea.  we rushed them onto the scale and gravity persisted, sinking our hearts.
“we’re one pound over.”
we wondered what we could shed, what we could lose.
what would the weather be like with no orbit?
there wasn’t enough time.  there was nothing we could do in such little time.
we fell quiet and followed each other back inside, as if wooden walls would provide us safety from 27 million degrees.
(we knew they wouldn’t.  we knew.)
out of the window we saw it approaching.  i curled up onto the floor and covered my head and closed my eyes
and i felt it crash.
it was so silent and it burned and i almost couldn’t feel it.
it was the slowest three seconds i had ever lived and died through.
and i waited for mind to go blank.

you found fear in the safest of places and i glanced toward where your shaking finger was pointing and (so quickly) lost touch with stability.
“i’m scared,” i whispered.
“we all are.”
and suddenly, in a perfect paradox, the earth was still again.

rest softly.  pieces of consciousness still cling to the wrinkles of your brain but i hope that i have held them long enough to keep them warm.  i thought today, when we squeezed each other’s hands, that maybe this time i can stay.

your quiet encapsulates me.  it is tangible and heavy.  every weight that my soul has measured cannot tip the scale, but each is saturated with calm and paying attention.  colors are hushed and worry lines are stretched and snapped and crumbled and swept under a monochrome rug that my feet can no longer feel.  please carry me away from these troubling sounds.  brush my hair over my ears and my eyes and comb out the noises tangled with last year’s apprehension.  such muted, yet manifest allure; i will never find myself further than your weakest, wordless reach.

it is so quiet and i am so small.  so easily handled and fragile and safe in hands that make it okay.  you exhale, sliding sound between curiously peering teeth, crunching it with cracking molars, tossing it around with your tongue:

“let’s stay here.  awake.  aware.”

and i feel like i’m real, at least inside this bed.  at least inside my mind, which is nowhere more than here.  settled and still.

still awake.

i am drinking in the fog, welcomingly.  weakening your vision, narrowing it to the immediate.  underexposing obvious faults by overexposing secret skin.  sticking my thumbs in your eyelids, forcing a blur.  you are bright, but i will never let you see through me.