pain

I Just Want to Tell You I’m Worried

Artwork by Sara Franco

I search your name every time I’m scared. We don’t talk anymore and my house feels like a container.
I shake the ashes off in December, the longest stretch yet.
I lay awake creating patterns on the ceiling, feet reluctant to meet the day.
Half-way to the subway and I’ve forgotten my mask.
Your arms were the preferred measure of safety, your chest a sanctuary I built to rest.
The news is a mindless predator, all teeth, heckled a reminder nothing is safe;
the outdoors, the economy the elderly, travel, hugs.
I surf the familiar waves of anxiety, guts churning to mincemeat.
I ask a friend if there’s a type of telepathy that would land me in your dreams.

I just want to tell you I’m worried a bit, only you know when I say “a bit” I mean “a lot”.
I’m physically stable and grateful but slights are important like
lacing fingers,
inside jokes, the eb and flow of us,
laughing
dancing in the kitchen.
The ticklish part of the inner arm, kissing tears away from cheeks, rolling toward each other under covers,
our bodies fireplaces to gather thoughts and frosty toes at.
Little things I miss, like creating an inner world where you and I exist.

I wonder about the contents of your container,
if you ever seek my features in spaces of half- faces
and which street reminds you of me the most.
I wonder,
who you’re making feel safe now and if you mean it
or if honey still pools at your lips attracting the hummingbirds you replaced me for.
If your promises weigh more, and if you weigh less, like me, from stress.
I guess
I really want to believe you’ve changed
and if I can believe in something that far-fetched
then maybe I can finally believe in something real,
like myself.

—

R.Tripp is an electronic music producer from the UK living in Berlin.

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