In the daytime
the body, composed like music,
says to itself:
“How are you?”
to which the immediate response is:
It sighs like a song about it,
then splashes cold water
out of a porcelain basin onto purple veined skin.
There are many ways to love,
and to destroy yourself.
I’d list them all but you would only remember two:
Talk about sadness,
as if they were art
and when the dotted line asks for ‘Name,’
tell yourself you are much too shy to write the One that first comes to mind.
Instead, tell the neighbours that the type of love they’re thinking of
wasn’t being made,
we were just trying to touch each other’s faces.
I’m never truly here,
parts of me exist everywhere,
parts of my body hum
and we’re drowning at the bottom of a bath
– Bach’s Suite for Cello Solo No. 1 in G
playing from another room.