A dark home light blinks through the rain,
white strips across a wet floor.
My reflection bends on a train window,
never stands still long enough.
I wrap my fingers around the paper cup,
you're looking into my palm,
somewhere below the city home.
My pulse keeps tapping, a quieter twin.
I keep holding on to my own edges,
just to feel something's
scary.
I'm learning words to keep in my hands,
but what are the hurts we'll do?
Not everything
is lost,
not everything's always true.
It is in the making, go for the draw.
It's choosing what goes on me.
Attention to
the woman beside me fixes a loose button,
a thread shaking between her teeth.
If a train lurches forward without warning,
we'd laugh it on the floor.
I used to lock my breast in place like Ruben Nicholas,
to know what I like.
But this weight carrying me just in a rail about,
we ease
in breath.
There's a distance between holding steady and holding afirm.
I'm learning words to keep in my hands,
and the noise keeps asking for more.
Something's on the ceiling,
can we stop putting them to the floor?
It isn't weakness,
it's making room for balance inside the motion.
I feel safety lifting pressure to take control of perfect lines.
But my body softens when I start fighting the shape of time.
I know you want a clean release,
just to slow and tighten in my chair.
My grand-brother finally trusting where it bears.
I'm learning what's keeping my hands
when everything wants to be held.
Choosing presence over patterns,
choosing
myself over the fool.
It isn't losing what matters,
it's keeping on knowing I can't stay.