Brawl Lit: we don’t do math on sundays
we don’t do math on sundays
infinite by my count, which is admittedly impatient & more often
than not incorrect, there are possibly, precisely infinite manners of love
& taking care, among them—asking how many apples & are you okay,
a breath at the door & my softest once through, what it speaks to listen,
how it smarts to speak, to say, for instance, say it—how the hour here
finds you, however strained, strange or stumbling sideways toward self-
determination, there is no suffering on earth that cannot be shared.
no strange bird sings alone. this is how i say you are not now, nor will
you ever be alone. it’s true, a feeling is not a fact. i find it no less real.
see: my disastrous attempts to feel whole in the morning. a hand
placed on your back. five minutes of silence for the first time today,
an end to the silence, a return to me, home. anywhere you are,
where i am too seems statistically improbable & possible as anything.
we could have been any way, any place, any time & we are these two,
with so many ways to say i am here.
