I remember while you sang in the car
and I wrote in the dark, you stopped to ask
what I was writing, if I was writing about you
and I said no.
I was.
My words were piled one over another
(for there are no straight lines in the dark)
and it was a silent tangled plea.
Your voice wound lazy circles in the cavity of my chest,
wrapping its fingers around organs and entrails
and Lord help me, I wasn’t sure
if I would ever breathe quite the same again.
