art by Michele Maule | Etsy Shop | Facebook | Twitter
716.4 mi. or Sometimes I Get Dizzy Because a Stranger in the Supermarket Smells like Colgate Toothpaste and Black Coffee
We are a taffy pull,
a tango with tired feet,
a never fully unpacked suitcase.
Two years ago, we met in the middle,
two sets of shaky, familiar hands,
and I’ve been running to you ever since.
Through a bus window somewhere in Wisconsin,
I watch billboards for cheese and clean gas station bathrooms
blur together, a space inside me hollowing,
scattered pieces leaving a trail down I-90.
Every mile marker a field of dandelions,
I close my eyes and blow.
Crying in an airport isn’t like crying for real.
I remove my shoes to the muffled sound of a security guard,
a mosaic of myself on the metal detector screen,
but no one stops me.
Our love, a cold cup of coffee
we’ve let go to waste on a bedside table.
I want to bury myself in your bed
and melt into its seams.
I’m so tired of ripping myself out by the roots.
I check the weather where you are,
desperate to connect our dots.
My sun is shining, but there are storm clouds over Minneapolis.
How jealous I am of the rain and its nearness to you.
My toothbrush sits
on your bathroom counter,
My hands claw through the dark and
find nothing but discarded
red X’s bleeding all over the sheets.