wrote this in the first week of May. edited in July.
My suitcases are still full of clothes.
Boxes are stacked in the garage.
My desks and drawers are outlined with dust.
I am in-between.
Two nights ago I wake up early on a Sunday.
It’s dark outside and a bird is chirping.
The air in my room is heavy with static.
May unfurls itself like a whisper, turning inside out.
It’s hot, hot, and hotter.
Since I’ve been home I dream every night.
My eyes are steadily failing.
They are tender, like mashed pulp.
Next week I finish classes.
I get a slide and a quote in lieu of a ceremony.
There are people I will never see again.
All my goodbyes sound like questions.
I go for a drive full of hairpin turns.
The heat beats into my head like a drum.
Outside my windshield, the world floats.
The sun exposes red seams, bloody things.