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Glitch  •  13 May 2021  •  Fiction

Our Conversations as Bodies, as Dams

By Rebekah Baston
Content Warning: Blood
 Our Conversations as Bodies, as Dams

Our conversations as bodies, as dams,

and my job at four am.

In the dark,
the violent dark,
how was coffee? — how’d you sleep?

Back to depth,
in seconds he’s gone.
crisp and black — pretty badly. 

The bus,
louder than an ocean,
crisp and blue, it calls me back.

The moon lingers still,
shallow and feverish,
with eyes pink and puffed like cotton. 

And I sink into lonely,
again and again,
that gasps of air can’t quite quench. 

Waking up to him
feels like an alarm,
different time zones, like waiting for lunch. 

I laugh and cry into my phone,
strings of ones and zeros
like long, empty roller coaster
escalators. 

I pick fights,
like my teeth,
with hands and lips, dry and open.

I know it hurts,
I can see the blood,
I’ve just got to get this
out.

I drown in nothing.
The best years of your life!
Down and out, I’m out. I’m out. 

But then back to the pitch,
to the white buzz.
The city sleeps its desperate slumber,

twinkling,
clambering
to keep the little people awake. 

Concealed blue
skies, and tears.
The people almost make me laugh,

(arguing with themselves
and empty seats)
were they not so damn angry.

Zombie hands,
zombie arms, legs.
I’m still asleep. I’m getting paid to sleep. 

But he’s still there,
he always is.
I miss him in every second.

In every missed call.
Wandering, recounted days.
I want to feel the skin behind my screen.

Then fall asleep to
laptop night lights,
heavy breathing like he’s right there.

I hope he has a good night’s sleep.

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