smoke and mirrors
My apartment is clean. I pulled apart the pieces of my life and cleaned. I opened my father's box. His book to me, his first card, his father's watch waited for me. I am tears, I have feelings, which makes me anxious. I move across the scope of my being, I drop things and am disassociated from my flesh. In former times this would be a moment when I look to external stimulation to emulate my internal sense of growing restlessness.
Break
I continue seeing the same person. A few days ago they slept next to me: I woke up with feelings.
Feelings do things like make me check my phone, smile to myself, have anxiety that perhaps there was no bottle and there is no genie.
They come into my apartment we are arms, legs, shirts pulling over head, sweat and lips over flesh. I listen to the beating of his heart, my head pulled, held against his chest. I hear a rhythm all its own and I exhale a breath I didn't even know I was holding.
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