Don’t you know I’m not moving?
That’s what I want to say, when I’m with you.
When we ride the train into the city while night beats its wings at our backs.
When there’s a lull in the conversation, or when that second passes when I scramble to reach the door you’ve held for me, arms outstretched.
Don’t you know?
When I think about the moment I stopped, the moment I first heard your voices swims up into my consciousness.
You know, that night I woke up because you were screaming again.
It turned out that you weren’t.
(Maybe that was a trick from slumber?)
Or should I really ask you,
“Do you know?”
Because I peel seconds away from myself, whole minutes where I know that we are clear.
Crystal, in fact.
I won’t ask you, I promise. Even though I’m still not moving.
Even though the fingers at the edge of my mouth make it smile.
Even though I woke up that night and heard you screaming when you weren’t.
I love you, but I promise.
I won’t ask you if you know that I’m not moving.