She whispered, I feel like I know you but we’ve never met. We curled together in the early sun, listening to Phoebe Bridgers. She took my face in the palm of her hand and kissed me, reminding me that whispers are louder than screams.
There’s a leak at the kitchen faucet and I keep listening to the distant sound of water dripping. We kept meaning to fix it but daylight or darkness found us entwined, unable to fathom how we’d fall apart in a thunderstorm of brokenness.
I couldn’t seem to bend far enough and she moved like bamboo in all my hurricanes. When did our passion pop become heavy metal? I reached hard to tone down my drumming. Where was a flute softly chiming when I needed it? Could I have spared her all my mistaken notes?
The years that I silently wept without her only to see that the work of bending wasn’t innate to me. As my fingertips brushed the floor, I breathed through a cry, wishing to again be wrapped in her hair and her sighs.
Could I again sing softly in the slip of night into morning against her, if I just reached out my hand?