the thrum of a phone ringing and your name pressing against the speaker. lips pressing against the speaker. you tell me you’ve been feeling like an afterthought lately, so i listen.

and i open my hands to you, palms up,
fingers spread and i want it like that.
want to take that beating, writhing thing and hold it, hold it until you’re not afraid anymore. want to catch your fears before they slip through the little spaces. want to hold the door open and let you sift through.

you tell me you’ve been feeling like an afterthought, so i tell you i’m listening. listening ‘till my ears fall off, repeating and convincing you to think otherwise ‘till my lips turn blue.

i’m opening my hands again to catch you and hold you up. there are worry lines there, the ones that carnival psychics say mean you’re going to die soon. long, winding lines.
the palm-reader must have heard it in my voice, when we went to that little room on the beach with a purple velvet curtain. the color burned my eyes, made them water, and then she must have heard it. the way my mouth cracked around your name and couldn’t swallow it. how i couldn’t call you girlfriend, couldn’t even get through the sentence. my dry voice, rough from disuse under your turquoise eye. then we went home, 

and

lotion fails to comfort my hands
honey fails to soothe my throat
these sentences should end in without you but i’m figuring that nothing is working anymore whenever we’re shoulder-to-shoulder. hands pressed flat on your matted floor, thinking about how right those sickos on the beach are, stealing your money, making you think your girlfriend’s plotting against you.

you tell me you feel like an afterthought--that i make you feel like an afterthought. on the way home, the back of your mom’s car.
i hear myself talk, through my ears filled with cotton. hear myself catching you on that last tick in the word. i press your own name to your earlobe, a gentle brush against the skin, a kindness i’m offering you, palms up, still pretending i’m with you and you’re with me.