but you say time is liquid,

the calendar mocks me

smirking on my desk as my blind finger makes only a small journey

to the night I saw you last.

 

to the night your arms held my raw, shaking tears

when the street lamp danced in the salty wetness of your eyes

your head shoved the cold air side to side

No

don’t go yet,

I love you.

 

to the night I drove from Birch street

from 8 months

from my poems

and your songs

to the night I drove from us.

 

but even though you’re so close on the calendar

I forget your face now.

your eyes are tucked in old pictures

and our poems read more like blurry syllables and drunk imagery

 

in first grade we learned that liquid takes the shape of it’s container.

you say time is liquid

but I say the calendar days are containers

 

I guess I’m not like those people who can see days without lines on paper

where fluid spreads freely

and you wake up with last Tuesday’s water on your cheeks

 

no,

to me, our river is locked in the box of last Tuesday

locked in the box of Birch street

and anyway, 

I have trouble seeing underwater

 

but somehow,

when I kissed him

I could feel the 8 months trickle back to my mouth

and I wanted so badly to crash the calendar glass and swim in our music of time

with your lips pouring on mine

and taste the warm language of your love again

but his foreign tongue could not translate.

 

 

I guess it’s because in first grade we learned that liquid takes the shape of it’s container.

and you say time is liquid

but

the calendar days are still containers

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