Crushed

By morning time, I turn you off like a light switch on the wall, like lightning striking from the evening before, like a star that rumbles into stardust particles and never returns to its original form – almost completely expelled from the sky.

I feel so grateful for the chance to start anew once more and for the sensibility that space has granted me, saying if you care then don’t you dare and stops me from going down that road, crushes me until I’m only spine and bone, and then pins me to the floor to keep me there.

Thoughts change just as quickly as hairpin turns, then pivot for the worst, before any tiny, miraculous sliver of getting better is shown. Shiny memories slowly unspool themselves one by one across the walls of my room:

two silhouettes here,

two touching noses,

the faint smell of scented bar soap,

the width of your back –

before you’re gone, I get the sense that things have already changed. Then it stays like that for a handful of long days, as something interesting fades into something once felt.

Now don’t you dare get crushed by its weight and try to erase the space before you make it to morning and see that sensibility is there, waiting.