Sunday, 5am.
This emptiness, it waits.
Car engine-braked on
uneven keel. I wait for
amber to turn to green.
My hands, I do not know
what to do with them.
My hands, they shake.
I keep thinking I might
lose you in this maze of
white space. I am used to
white noise. Rush hour traffic.
The buzz of messages. Limbs
tangling in train cabins. This
stillness makes me jump.
This quiet makes me loud.
If I were to skip stones
your reflection will dissipate.
What was clear in the dark
will disappear with first light.