What if conversations on compression socks are all we have now? What if my cloudburst eyes
and inclement guilt are the only things I’m left with when I hang
up the phone? I’m scared there will only be the memory of a therapist’s office, recalling the
damp helplessness of growing up. Learning to pivot
from outpost to outrage. Realizing it was you I was angry with all along. On a clear day, you can
see the bull shit.
With your legs weeping water, we both know you’ll never see the ocean again. Why are we
pretending there are windows to view the rough skies? Only the hard mud
of memory remains, and already I have forgotten the pink of childhood. From here on out, there
will only be talks of your health and the weather.
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