you sit in your car mid-march
when the sky is just beginning to bleed blue
and you listen to someone sing
about the love they lost in paris
and you cry.

you hide in flimsy dresses
and you shimmer like smoke
and you pretend that you are happier
in a bedroom you don’t recognize
with a boy who has dandelion eyes
and callused palms.

you call your mother four times a day
and you go to the movie theatre by yourself.

you hang out with your little brother
and play chess with old men in the park.

you wait for him to call you
and he never does
and you jump off the skyscrapers
you didn’t realize you had in your heart. 

you are postponed, stilted
and you spill for much too long.