When my world tips over into a flux

When my language is a painting you know by heart when I have nothing left but angry

I am wearing something lacey and you are holding an eraser for my caving in

And you wash rice. And I don’t. And you play nice and I won’t.

And you are coughing this cross-word puzzle jigsaw backwards into the rind of my heart so even when I run you can’t get out of me. This is hard.

I am remembering the mornings you hold me when you’re mad about me

and what that means:

I am rethinking the walls in here            yellow             bittersweet melon tumbleweeds,

and three peanut butter n jellies a day.

I am picturing you; a helpless question in rhetoric. An obvious imperative. You are my magic. Deep inside my little case words, moments into the staircase I hide behind.

I have loved you before you knew I didn’t know– and before that I lied.

I pick pocket your rocket ship and I love the ride. I kiss chase the days we have saved up the ones most people don’t get in their lifetimes,

And I use them for you, just later on. Butter them up in an ocean blue time machine in a helium filled heart that blows bubbles when asked.

I wish                         that when I was afraid

that we had a sailboat and that I could sing it from lake to air             and

when I left you notes on your pillow you would know that I put them there to say,

Thank you, for loving me although,

Thank you for loving me although.