We are busy making plans all weekend, your fingers stuck in the hide of an animal, your fingers aching, busy, moving through each hair with precision, moving through each hair perfectly the way I’ve tried to move around you but you know how terrible dancing makes me feel, the green lights, the church-high ceilings. You know how each room has it’s own syntax, how each room’s walls are their own colors, how I peel the tape away and feel like cardboard. How I peel the tape away and come apart so quickly in the rain, the smell of paper, the ink sprayed like branches, the ink everywhere in the laundry and in my hair and on my fingers. You say IF YOU COULD REMEMBER ONLY ONE OR TWO THINGS, you say IF YOU COULD STOP TOUCHING THE ROOF OF YOUR MOUTH AND LISTEN FOR A SECOND.
