sometimes i wonder if i've sealed myself on the inside of too many envelopes. if everything there ever was exists between the feathery folds of paper. the margins all restuck. a consequence of humidity and time. evidences only that there's been something waiting to come apart. to be ripped at the seams like a half worn hem. maybe i've gotten drunk one too many times over piles of laundry and bills and mental lists of my inefficacies. flirted shamelessly with too many men in the dark next to trash bins. thinking more about the way broken bottles glint like water under harsh parking lamps. that what i become is only some memory that i've created with text across a page or words across a wire. each meant to press themselves into a space that won't fit. like a thumb heavy against a palm. every day it all becomes a little less real. your hands. the internal combustion engine. what it takes to bake a cake.

words don't make poetry in my head any more.
my head doesn't take them and make them move.
but, sometimes, loving you, in those caught unexpected moments
still feels like i've got to stop and hold my breath