When people say that they
watch their lovers sleep,
I wonder if they’ve let go
of all self control, letting
their feelings matter more
in the moment & if they
are forgetting what’ll be
reality by tomorrow.
I find myself envious
of this ignorance,
wanting to not worry for
definitions & what feels
I want you
to know that I have
watched you when
I feel you stir: your eyes
barely open & lips unaware
of the shapes they’re taking.
you reach for me
forgetting you’re not mine.
Our argument has aged and altered itself to fit our positions.
You cannot listen; I have forgotten how to remember you.
It was always a misguided approach from either end, anger
being the only thing that felt like home. I learned early to
harness my words, to let silence speak on my behalf. You took it
upon yourself to remedy only your reputation, not the reality
behind us. I resisted your truths, in favor of my own. This became
an odd sort of comfortable, a separateness—which felt like
an alliance we both understood, more pure than what I’d grown
used to. Forgiveness presented itself; I eyed it only a moment
before watching it spoil. It bore a finality with its entrance—
we were never having the same argument, only wanting to
be right. But your reach became rough, lacking in any attempt
at tenderness. I learned: some hands are not meant to be held.
RACHEL NIX is the Poetry Editor at cahoodaloodaling and edited the international collection America Is Not the World. Her own work has appeared in Antiphon, Hobo Camp Review, and Up the Staircase Quarterly. She resides in Northwest Alabama, where pine trees outnumber people rather nicely, and can be followed at @rachelnix_poet on Twitter.