I don’t know what to put here
except the quiet
questions
I keep behind
my morning lips.
How did you sleep?
Were your dreams safe?
The vacancy of grief
lives in the lines I don’t write,
the texts I don’t send.
I didn’t see the red flags
in my backpack
entwined in three days
worth of clothes
for me to sit anxious
and real on your couch.
I compared the contours
of my callous fist
to a half-safe shape
behind your ribs,
didn’t feel it sneak inside
to lay bruises
between valves and ventricles.
Thought it was more hug
than strangle,
your stomach knots
tangled wire tight.
Thousands of miles
turned lightyears
between our horizons,
I am matching your distance,
an unwrapped wound I gifted
to us both.
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James Roach (they/he) lives in Philly and is most creative between the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? To read some of his published works, visit his Linktree.