the eleventh hour

It is always the small things.
The little heartbreaks,
the phone call unanswered,
the passing slanted comment.
a door slammed a little too hard,
perhaps on accident, on the way out.
The kiss that hurts more than
helps or the way your hand
reaches across the table at dinner,
in assurance of your sincerity.

My feet want to move me out
from under this place.
My hands want to pull themselves
away from grasping yours.
My lips can’t help from
curling up, smiling back at you,
while my head is spinning
in balky cynicism.

It is the little things that
are the hardest to push away,
the hardest to get back,
the hardest to recover from.
The slight way you roll
over in the early morning,
your feet overlapping mine
because you can sense they
are cold. You can sense I
want you to pause, hold me
there, just for a small moment
until my eyes softly close again.

Maybe it isn’t such a small
thing. Maybe I am trying to
tell myself it is small so the
hole in my chest feels small.
So that the air I can’t seem
to grasp feels thin, and not
this thick brume that weighs
me down. Maybe, so the city
that just seemed small enough
to hold only us, doesn’t feel so big.
I am swallowed. I am consumed.
…a small bird, falling from
the tallest branch because
flying has been forgotten.


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