#letterfragment

[sarahhelenekelly]

letter fragment 22.

i finally asked the breeze to stop coming through my window while I sleep.

the motion of her dancing tugs the sheets right from my bare shoulders

and her breath is metallic cold. 

she wants to comfort but she's clumsy with her hands.

besides 

she didn't see the way i washed your empty coffee cup twice this morning

once because i wasn't paying attention and the second time because i wanted to prove to myself that I was. 

it's weird to say i feel you

(here),

and (here),

                             and also (here).

all the places that you aren't. 

[sarahhelenekelly]

letter fragment 14.

i wrote you a poem and it never saved.

it never saved. 

the letters released themselves 

up into the air

and no one knows a thing of it.

[sarahhelenekelly]

letter fragment 13.

i was the candle at the center of the table.

did you know,

some people crave light like others crave air. 

and they say tongues

will spread like forest fires.

i wondered if that's why we rarely spoke. 

[sarahhelenekelly]

letter fragment 13.

call me broken

but you have to take yourself apart

in order to figure out why the ticking stopped.

especially when it never started to begin with,

even though they always had their way of asking you for the time.

[sarahhelenekelly]

letter fragment 15.

a sweetness in the suds of cleaned wine glasses.

a pollen between the shoulder blades. 

finger prints like

dew drops nestled between skin cells. 

this aroma.

i'd inhale it if i could. 

[sarahhelenekelly]

letter fragment 11.

and lastly,

torn ligament,

near-sighted

hollow chest.

wooden seesaw.

stop seeing yourself as such.

there's a path paved just beneath your feet you can't help but walk it.

speak up.

i cannot hear you when you whisper.

beauty maker,

glory seeker,

heart healer,

feeler.

I cannot hear you when you whisper.

[sarahhelenekelly]

letter fragment 9.

yes, i know how the wind works, but please just be careful.

[sarahhelenekelly]

letter fragment 20.

you used to always warn us about swimming in the Hudson during low tide. The seemingly static current and the restful waters. Silly us, we'd swim out farther than we could stand and before we knew it, the water would be above our chins - even if our feet were in the same place. The floating wooden docks, our mighty saviors, too far for us to reach this time.

it's funny how the definitions of words change over time.

easy.

hard.

making your bed each morning.

driving down the freeway at night.

Those docks used to be our reference points, but I don't know how I feel about reference points anymore.