There is no other way it can be done.
When I asked you to give me your secrets, I said I could weave them into baskets. The truth is my hands aren’t good for much these days. I crack my knuckles. Push back the cuticles.
It’s a slow exposure.
I undress in the dark — I’m sick of my skin, sick of my body. My hair grows longer. This is the passing of time. I’m still learning the words I need to say to you. Words like love and sorry and stay.
I was always good with want, however, I remain clumsy with the keeping.