it is night and the ocean
is beginning to chew
the moonrise. the gap
between our feet
is filled with frictive
air and i realize
that the only thing holding me in
from dissolving into the water,
from letting my cells sink back into the splits in the boardwalk
the way i wished i could
when the daily paper proclaimed you dead
before i was given so much
as a text message,
the only things holding me in
are carbon
and you-
-or the space which you
should occupy
just slightly to my right, the tapping
that should be in the air
from your arched fingertips
like you are typing on a keyboard-
writing things i will
never see
again
YOU ARE READING
Tasting the Colours of Ice
Poetrybreathe in my pulse and try not to suffocate in its irregularity A collection of poetry and prose dipped and coated in prosopagnosia's waxy aftertaste.
