You’re Never Gonna Believe This by Alyssa Froehling

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You’re Never Gonna Believe This

listening to flatsound in my apartment, you fall
asleep on my floor. i am still wearing your

sweatshirt, holding it against my body like a
lifejacket. i want to say something

that will affect your breathing. to your

right, the window is open, and the sidewalk is

flooding in like a swimming pool. we are the

finger paint of april, laughing as it smears us

along the street with light— unfairly stolen
from man made machines and higher things floating

and cool to the touch. i want to play you the piano

underwater. i want you to hear me stutter as major

flutter kicks to minor. buoyant is the way you
sleep: a slow give to pressure, suspension on

the surface. you are glass breaking into me,
the water inside. you are a color i don’t mind bleeding.

i’ll make sure you’re awake before joking

about how i don’t exist but if i really don’t, i want

you to know i’m content like this, sleeping like a sand flea
curled into the shell sheet we hung up called the sky:

our wrists touching the carpet to the ground, touching

thirsty roots to pebbles on an unpaved pathway

running into water. some days these things come
easily. our shins don’t break. i want to sleep as deep

as the air in between the tiny-time-bomb heartbeats of
gnats as they sail on the soggy bread brink of the lake

in my bird feeder memory. the day the earth was knee
deep in its dream of a swamp, and you sounded like

you were drunk alligator green, seeping not like a sentence

but a sentiment. we both know what we already both know—

Alyssa Froehling

Alyssa Froehling is a writer from Palatine, Illinois. She graduated from Augustana College with majors in English and Creative Writing, and a minor in Women & Gender Studies. Former editor-in-chief of Augustana College’s art & literary magazine, SAGA, she is also an editorial staff member at Floodmark Poetry, a website designed to inspire and motivate new writers. Her interests include running in place, pugs, winged eyeliner, dressing like a 36-year-old lumberjack, folk-punk bands, and eating too much fruit.