epsilon delta
i asked you once,
did we ever make out?
you laughed it off—
a bubble popping mid-air,
fragile enough to disappear
without a sound.
i remember the way
we stitched each word,
patches in a quilt,
covering everything
but warmth.
the touch of memory,
brushing fingers
against “what if”
before turning away.
your words—
streams and static and sparks,
sometimes drowning me,
sometimes
dragging me up
for air, only to
ask the next question.
are you happy?
no, but i smile.
did i ever love you?
never, but i miss
the ghost of your hand
trailing my back
before you left.
you once suggested
we get tattoos,
as if permanence
was an ink we could drink
to make us brave,
instead of another idea
we’d joke about
until it faded into
whatever night held next.
astigmatism bothers me—
the way everything splits,
even headlights
mock me when i drive.
you said that’s old age.
i laughed,
but the truth is,
i’m not scared of the dark.
i’m scared of how
this place holds me,
like a half-remembered song
you hum
just to forget.
the state we’re in—
literal, metaphorical,
who cares anymore.
we are indiana:
faded bleachers,
old rivalries,
everyone
flaking at the last second.
you told me i deserve love,
and i shut you down,
because i couldn’t stand
the ache of something
i might never let myself
receive.
we won’t resolve
this.
the limit, our limit
exists.
we’ll be like coins
on opposite sides of the table,
scraping together
then apart,
the distance never
quite shrinking
to zero.
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february 1, 2025