Perhaps now.
Perhaps never.
I curl and contort into sodden linen—writhing recklessly—
I count the number of breaths it takes to fall
in
and
out
of dreamless space.
Do you think they’ll dream of me?
Rest never comes in this hour.
Instead, I:
tiptoe on wooden floors to invisible jazz
cupping warm flesh with limp hands;
hum to the tune of a million what-ifs
fabricating a modest production for one.
My chest is a shell beckoning you to press an ear against it.
But I fear it’s not beach weather anymore—
the ebbing tide has washed away any remnants of Summer.
Do you think they will dance with me a little longer?
Perhaps they might.
Perhaps they might never.
Temptation coaxes me closer,
telling me lies like reciting prayers.
Does she know I no longer believe in the divine?
I believe in Her now.
Her damp and cold breath lingers over my prickled skin.
Has She always held such dominion?
Perhaps soon I’ll know.
Perhaps I’ll never know.
Pressing down flat palms to smooth each wrinkle,
I plead for this to bring peace.
I nestle my lifetime into creaseless sheets, folding bad luck into the thread count.
Giving up the ghost is the final performance.
But no applause waits as the curtains draw close.
Perhaps soon they’ll see.
Perhaps they never will.
