Schrödinger’s Cat and Dreaming in the Kitchen
I did it on purpose, looking for purpose:
the feeling of you at my fingertips.
It was a stretch, but it felt good, reaching towards the sun.
I would let my ribs catch fire, teased by the edge,
the breath sucked in right before collapse.
That moment, infinitesimally short,
where time accordions into nothingness,
like the curls in your hair seconds before the rain.
And you—how my time is spent looking for glimpses of you,
I’m always doing it, my teeth clench around you in my sleep.
Like searching city scapes, you occupy the faces of strangers—
a place I’ve never been burned into my memory,
an abandoned ruin inside me that I go back to again and again.
You once touched the space in my chest where nothing seems to fit.
I trace its contours with my fingers, and close my eyes;
sometimes I can’t tell if I’m dead or alive.
Dreaming in the Kitchen
I dreamed my teeth fell out and I crashed my car,
I dreamed of kissing,
and I dreamed of something I cannot remember.
I’m collapsed on the tiled floor heaving,
reduced to a pile of tears, spilling my guts like
fish from a net. I slept through
the day and wished I hadn’t woken up at all,
or not just yet. My phone is dead on the couch.
My tired hands Braille the crumbs on the floor.
The light slants low, washing through the window
and glowing golden on my face and my arms
as if I was something precious.