with our mouths half open?
When did we start stepping over one other’s bodies
the morning after? Gathering our things and
slipping out the door like thieves? Like cowards?
When did the clouds grow silent?
When did every one of my pictures become
a before or after shot?
When did our pens start slipping?
When did letters start coming back unopened?
When did the ferris wheel stop with the
better lovers swinging their feet at the top,
the dirt at the bottoms of their shoes
falling into our hair?
When did the ferris wheel stop with us
still in reach of ground, still able to
pry the gate open and escape?
When did this become an apostrophe?
When did we become nothing
but a pause for breath?
When did our bodies grow pale, grow white,
and wave their own flags?
When did we start clawing at each other’s necks
and calling it love? Calling it close?
When did our stomachs cave in
and our legs give out?
When did someone else’s shoulder
start smelling of home?
When did someone else’s hands
start smelling of everything else?
When did every approaching footstep
stop sounding like yours?
When did the question mark of your hips
stop being the answer?
When did you stop being