and despite the sleep-fog and being so cold and the time being so
blue-green, sliding in front of my eyes like a leaf in water i
slip, slide through months by weeks and
barely a minute goes by without that painful twist in my stomach,
the one pointing to everything at once because
at some point it's all hurt.

and i guess my way of responding is dipping back into shivering nights and
licking my wounds, remembering that it's you with the senseless,
you with the stories and explanations and masks—
and me, somewhere, staring, shellshocked

because there's no way you can be like that and still hold me like that

and all i want is logic and a cold night where the time's blue-green and slippery,
one fading in and out of blanks and sparkles—i
think best when the life is frozen out of me
and you've offered so many opportunities for such a thing but like i said,
licking my wounds—there's still so many, and there's no time to just sit and
breathe, chilled to the bone, and think in words like ice.

there are corners of memory i still can't touch because the time just splinters--
shards, shining, slicing. cutting
everything i thought you were into ribbons, small red ones that curl like we used to,
like we apparently do again because
somewhere along the line we both splintered, and oddly enough
only recognized each other in these piles of glass and
here we sit, in the middle of a cold night picking up the bits and putting each other back together

and it's ridiculous
and i still have no idea who you are but i hate those ribbons and i just want
time to start sliding again, cool in the dark and nothing in a hurry.
blue lights on the ceiling and us.

but here i am, loved and cold.