she in me.
she’s been of two worlds and I sense the edges—which inches of she is me. the fantastic pulling, eyelash by eyelash, to the heavens. the dreadful wrapping, fingertip by fingertip, to a hungry earth. the way songs make her feel free and insignificant all at once, until the bridge. at the bridge, she wonders.
what would it be like to fall through the valley’s vein with things like cruise control and airbags and automatic windows? what would it be like to find a voice in an unrelieved cacophony? she’s always wanted these particular answers; and in this moment the outside limits of her bleed into inside limits of me.
pictures change with decades—the metallic taste of sepia, spat against a paneled wall; the airiness of black and white, strung like little pearls against a picket fence. the details of us—she is she and me is me—are fading, and us is we remains.
so I watch as preferences for coffee and space and self write songs, new songs, for newly sharpened ears. a beating heart, a humming tongue, a picture of you, but me.