Rain falls in seconds that fold into themselves. It is unsayable, yes, and so it sounds shitty. It is not unthinkable. Can you dream it? Can you? It was loud, yes, and you closed the windows. Why? When was the last time we danced? Was my face wide, like valleys of open hands? Did I smile?
We don’t have to talk. You left, but I left the hallway light on for you. I’m waiting. Waiting for you. Not fully, just a little bit. Loneliness meeting loneliness. Almost enough for us to swallow each other whole. Almost. Not quite.
The milk smells ordinary. It’s probably still good. Will you come back? When? Tomorrow I’ll buy sugar for your coffee. You have to see what I do. You have to give yourself over, just for one godforsaken second.
I reject indisputable beauty. Yes, with all my strength. I’m ordinary, yes, but noticeable. Not at first glance. No. And if you never notice, that’s on me. My hand is neither delicate nor weathered. I’ve turned pages with it. Plenty. But only for as long as I wanted to. It’s worked, too, but only because it had to. In summer it blisters, needs ointments and appointments. It’s eczema, the internet says. In winter I run it through your hair and tell you about the sea;
I’m an impostor.