"this was you" // poem
your hands: all slow moves
and tight grasps. fingering a
collar, lip prints pressed
cherry-red and heaving on
white material.
there was never a right time.
this was you, face-pressed
to glass and frost, waiting.
this was you, eyes fogged
and lips drawn, tight lines.
(is this a cry or something -
worse?)
---
I have a fever of like, 100F. I feel gross, and there's a tickle at the back of my throat. Night.