everything at once
Adi Martin-Ruben


a string is pulling the sun towards its reflection in the ocean,
recycling light
and i don’t mind that it’s early and dark out
i like the paling shadows, neon glow
it’s like diners with crayon-littered tablecloths or
big cities we drew into maps,
scraping our chins at intersections.
you are sitting next to me and swatting at the sand,
soft angel dust across your knuckles and knees
like falling asleep in the sun while you
outlined my body in pink chalk.
something aches at my temples.

you are not aware of this but
if you play connect the dots with
all of your mosquito bite summer scars
the lines make letters: 

“i am completely sunken into you
there is nothing to worry about
take everything at once and run” 

i remember how you caught me laughing
with strawberry jam running down my chin,
how you shucked the salt smell from
your slow-growing hair and
the first time you looked at me
with nothing left to say.
it was the third friday of november.
i practiced all these vague ways
to say goodbye,
like folding paper swans,
cardboard bellies and the sound of trains.
but you painted an industrial revolution with
soft impressions of your canine teeth. 

“never never never”
“okay” 
 
 
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