Schrodinger has been writing me
love letters, and he hasn’t. he
catcalls me from closed boxes
while I flip coins trying to figure
out what’s breathing, what isn’t.
your coffin, floating in earthen
rivers, hinges gleaming iridescent
as salmon scales, I am sitting here
guessing if the cat is dead or alive
in that imaginary vacuum, ignoring
Pavlov’s set ringtone on my phone -
the bells make me think of your
throat, how your Adam’s apple
rang when you swallowed down
another of my placebo promises.
I love, loved, you. and I didn’t.
Freud keeps dropping business
cards through the letterbox asking
my mother to call him, I scribble
down sketches of your mouth on
the back, how it curled when you
stumbled over the words ‘death’
and ‘love’ alike. and maybe the
answer to it all lies therein, that
when you died everything else did,
and nothing changed, all at once.
my shrink is expanding my vision, and
all I see are our hands, rotten and r