football tackles

there wasn’t an exact moment when i realized the severity of your weight. calloused and forgiving. a misread concubine knowing the placement. gracefully saddened.

but then there was that night, where i read thick books on the mattress on your floor. your high regard for human touch. the watering-down of sugared drinks. your vibrant keep for a grey sun. the calm of your breath on my skin. wondering if my next-morning-commute could still smell it.

which led to that time you forgot and pandered the other way. hands in your pockets. eyes always squinting from the sun. and i would knock on your door, always, while the moving companies of men just walked right in. adjusting your bed here. pushing your art there. my eyes focusing on the art on your walls. so many unrecognizable worlds. smaller dimensions of time where i wasn’t, in a handwriting where the l’s were too many and i kept losing count.

but then we decided to go for a walk that one day. the sun, second time around, pulsated into a heavy blue. we crossed the streets with heartened hands that had grown thin from understanding the tables and from setting the chairs. and back home our bed, was soft from the last defeat of its will. in its place, a countryside of golden wheat where we would lay and imagine taking photographs of metal art. when you asked a question and turned yourself in the answer. saying ok.

so maybe it was then.

but i know for sure i could hear the rain last night. i timed the lighting and thunder so perfectly that my pressure went up. drops telling the clouds how tired they were of this number and trying so hard to finish. waiting on me, waiting on you. and it scared me cause all i could do was quiver out my answers, branches harboring and ignoring your path. an immature stream soaking my shoes wet while i tried to quiet my walk to the pattern created.

but then you just laughed. and stared at me for too long. long enough for me to find a way out.

raincoat hope.

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