Just because the stitches in my back are itching
doesn’t mean they want to heal.
You should know better,
you who’s been itching for years
It flashed on the screen
in the corner of the room
like the shape of a desire that was.
You almost recognize it,
masked like the face of an old lover
The room brightened a bit
and everything darkened around,
like silhouettes against a sinking sun.
You stood there, paused in half-turn,
and stared—zipper undone, index finger
on the remote’s “Power” button—
The rest of the night packs itself away,
a force of habit:
mugs in the sink, keys in the lock,
phone off and plugged,
the routines of a day ready to turn in.
Gingerly you lift the back of your hand
to your face and inhale.
At that point you don’t care
if it makes you nauseous,
if it smells like spring
or just the soil beneath.
You fill your lungs hoping
—you’re not sure what for—