Questions to question

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.