I can pretend. I can kiss. I can sleep in your arm pit. I’ll say the right words: let’s go home, I won’t leave, don’t die.

I wake up knowing you walked dreams, weaved, planted your face upon bodies of friends, mannequins.

Anxiety. Imagining you is anxiety. Chance meetings on odd corners is my mind working out routes, calculating a distance, understanding alternations.

I sleep secured and you bleed from both feet as snow falls.