I said I couldn’t hold your words in my mouth any longer without tasting this city on my tongue.
The night was full of skinned knuckles and panic attacks,
meandering voices and the sound of skin on skin creating fires beneath our feet;
full of shallow breaths, of “I don’t belong here”'s.
This town used to hold kings and queens, used to hold our spines up as our vertebrae came disjoined into the palms of our hands,
Used to catch our breath when we could not–
speak anything except:
I have forgotten where home is.
We used to be heroes, we used to hold worlds in our mouths,
but not here.
You told me you were leaving and I couldn’t help but wonder If your absence was just exemplary,
an emblem for what used to hold our bones together-an illusion for the walls of this house to breathe In
once it no longer smelled of you.
There was copper on my breath and I tried to climb out of this blue skin
so that maybe I could follow you
after you leave,
But the sky feels like fire and my bones won’t let go of me.

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Cory Garcia

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