how do we go on?

dear reader, i do not have an answer for you.

i.
this morning i woke up again, toes turning blue,
knees tucked close to my chest, touching the bottom of the pool.
i see the world above me, i see the sunlight passing through
translucent skin and transparent water, and then the miracle of you

sitting beside me, holding your breath
woe, i’ve made you so blue.

answer the phone, you’ve come to plead again
it’s ringing up a storm on the surface.
but underwater it’s all muffled, underwater the storms don’t carry.
head on the blue tiles, and before i know it, i’ve drifted off again.


ii.
i’d like to say i will resurface soon, but i also know
i can pack my life in a suitcase in 10 minutes, and i can drive
i can love your smile with every nerve in me
and still have the nerve to leave it all behind—

and i can hide.
until you’re done looking, i can hide.


iii.
how have we lived like this—
living on the past and throwing up the future?
how does one sit in traffic on a summer night
that smells like burnt rubber the way burnt rubber smelled when you were a child?

the steering wheel hums, and i don’t catch what it’s saying;
my hands are louder. they come away wet and i look up and i
flounder. the blue canopy of the pool winks back; i’m right where you left me,
i’m still underwater.