my forhead rests against
the wooden door frame
it seperates my living room from
kitchen i'm cooking
chicken stock and
you're reading recipes
over the phone
i imagine for a second
that you are
this wall that holds up my apartment
your voice holds me here
your words tumble like
butter into my stomach and
punch me hunched over
i hold my face
on the cool wood
i don't want to miss a moment
of your voice
don't want to mess up
a sentence
you say
i don't know whether to drop the
phone or hang up
or thank you for calling
this wall reminds me how i
i loathe your distance
curse the strict roads that hold us apart
i wish i could fight them like a rabid dog
hurl myself in your direction
unleashed and uncoiled
but i don't say anything i
turn around and sit on my kitchen floor
prop the phone against my
ear and listen deeply to every
sound
you make