These Days

These days I make a mountain out of a molehill,
stretch a whistle into a song,
hold time by its immeasurable breath
before it exhales me into another
sunrise where I don’t recognise
this stranger trapped in glass.

I pretend the phone is a time machine these days
if the call lasts long enough, then I have frozen time,
in a way that means I’m still at home in the cave of your arms,
and we cast spells by whispering our fears aloud
to break what binds them.
So if I’m back in that time,
I have come to be unbound.
You sink your teeth into my skin,
and I surrender.

These days I’m the echo of a dream,
waking mid-conversation with the ghost of a best friend
I have caged in my chest.
My body a glass mausoleum,
because I have chosen to navigate this world
as a puzzle missing its final shape.
The worst days are the some days I don’t remember
to hold grief in my smile
or let that sorrow glisten in my eyes.

These days
I name each ache after the new cities I travel,
pretend I am healing alphabetically.