i pretend to be human for
years. sometimes i hold my breath,
wait for the body to skin
itself like taxidermy. of course, it
never arrives. a missed train. i wait for
a hand to slip out of its glove, for a
streetlight to take a knife to its
brilliance. why is it that we ignore
elegies until they become necessary?
the girl i love doesn’t speak for days
at a time, but rather in shades of blue.
she doesn’t see other colors. (i didn’t
understand.) to be human, i realize, is to
see in glasses that have yet to be made.
the chartreuse skies choke themselves
in pollution: slowly, slowly. i part the
mouth like cartography, like an explorer, but
i don’t stake my claim. i call it anatomy.
she is my secret. i am her. we are the same girl,
sometimes: underneath light-filled
pollution, a city that mutes itself too late.
i want a forever that keeps its promises.
why can’t we just rewind over and over?
it is humbling, knowing you’re one in
a billion secrets.