Sadness for Breakfast / Want to Stop Missing You

When, for the fourth week in a row,

I wake up with your name

frozen on the corners of my lips,

it is the heaviest burden to think

I could swallow it

& call that eating

a piece of myself for breakfast—just one lick

away & the mere cost of losing my vision

for you to become silhouette, faceless.

 

The sky is blurry, rose, swollen,

bigger than big, always,

but I spilled a handful of snow today

on the piece of you

I keep on my desk.

I didn’t think something so small could break

anything until I noticed the cardboard spine

I had crushed

(in my haste, paper towels. Then, later, tissues.)

 

Paper never stands the same once it’s bogged with water-

color memory. How’s this?

When I look at you, I do not see a person.

I see the moon,

I see a house,

I see trees & the ghost of a future.

Future goes like this: Girl sees a man.

She can see through the man.

She does not know if he can see her back.

She is not looking at a man,

not a real one, anyway.

(People have always told me

my eyes make me look a bit sad.)

 

Like a season that comes every year,

looks like a new friend at first,

talks like it knows until it hits you:

this feeling, this it-hurts-to-breathe,

this going-outside-could-kill-you.

 

It’s tiring to be at fault, I say.

You would think we’d know

how to be invincible by now.

 

Instead, it’s the fourth week in a row,

& the corners of my lips are frozen

with a name they force themselves to speak

& silence.

 

It’s a name that mistakes paper for wood,

thinks thin sheets tough & smooth

& able to survive the wind.

It’s a name who thinks I’m as sturdy

as a living thing,

not so easily overpowered by a splash of water

or a handful of snow.

It’s a name, & by that I mean

it doesn’t understand winter,

& I’m tired of waking up

hungry.

 

The truth is

wood swells & bloats with ocean, too:

people make entire boats by splitting trees open.

 

& so, maybe Girl is wood after all, but

she still has to wake up & eat something,

doesn’t she? What do we do then?

 

Look to the sky for wisdom:

we do what we’ve always tried to do

but never quite got the hang of.

We get busy.

We move on.

We forget.

 

We try, at least.

Water stains & all.