1. vericose veins
3. why won’t it stop raining?
4. it looks like your family but it’s not
5. 6 seconds until we’re thrown overboard
6. the antique horse in your grandma’s bedroom speaks to you on moonlit nights
It’s how he feels spread against you. Hip to hip, mouth to mouth. Here goes your chest: expanding, expanding. Here goes his lungs: shrinking, shrinking. Just for you. Just for your body on the sand, limp and desolate. He is adrenaline that skimpers through your body like a heart attack. Electricity from your toes to your finger tips.
One night, he’s laying on the couch in the dark, the tv light making different shapes on his face, dipping into his cheek bones, curving around his chin, grazing the place between his eyebrows. And you’re all here, for once. There’s no more dreaming, no more wishing yourself into the stars or down a wishing well. There’s just existing and being right here, right now. Maybe with him in your bed, or sitting across from you at the kitchen counter eating froot loops at midnight. Maybe then he leaves in the morning, and maybe there’s still grains of sand in the sheets, an empty bowl on the raised counter, and the tv still playing the sports channel in the living room.
Maybe. Maybe this didn’t go like you thought. Maybe nothing ever does. But you survived this, whether or not you need a defibrillator is besides the point.
You are all here, bloody finger prints on the window sill and all. I love you for it.