Normally I breathe like the wind forgets my name,
normally the night folds me flat, a paper plane
missing your window by inches of neon rain.
My pulse is a metro line running late,
every stop an echo of your sideways gaze.
I keep the volume low so the silence can bruise,
normally I lose.
Normally the moon is just a burnt-out bulb
I unscrew and pocket, a counterfeit sun
to warm the hollows you left in the mattress.
Normally I walk backwards through the hour,
rewinding footsteps until the curb becomes your mouth
saying stay—
then the signal cuts, the screen goes grey,
and normally I press play.