You feel like you forgot that plants could coexist in places other than pots. Donna Tart is below the ivy plant and then there’s a piano next to the fig, dead vines in the trash in a pot after we discarded them together, because they climbed over the blinds and were a fire hazard— the pot was just because you didn’t need it anymore. Whose you, again?

Summer is defined by breaks and by warm weather. Here is break and here is warmer. The sun flitters through the crack in your curtains. The line that it casts on the hardwood floor follows the panels and you trace it with your toes, halfway to the door it stops and halfway to the door is a pin on the ground that you step on. Drops of red weep onto the floor. It could be red or crimson but it is black against the wood because you’ve broken down halfway to the door. Whose you, again?

It’s two in the morning and you’re in that bed again. Bars line the sky above you, another mattress the clouds. You can pretend that you’re floating because you’ve shot everything else numb. It’s two in the morning and all the lights are off, there isn’t a breeze in the sky because you’ve sealed yourself away. The clouds do not move, nor do you. To someone talking about ecosystems and self-managing bugs you drift off into a nightmare-induced storm on the waves. Whose you, again?

Paint sits in the cracks between your thumb and your nail. You pick at it. You are reminded of you. Your phone vibrates and you pick it up, greeted with an image of yourself on the floor of a Busy Place, carpeted floors left behind two weeks ago in the future in two weeks. Texting yourself you remind yourself that you aren’t yourself but you’re still talking to yourself, a wall. You say goodnight and you say goodnight back. You say what you say and you say what you say back. You send a picture of plants in pots on windowsills but you already moved on. Who’s you again?

Three weeks ago you remember yourself sitting with your head in your hands, on that stool. Unpeeled paint. You reached for yourself but your hand dropped last second. You’re not there yet, you don’t think. What would you do even if you were? The sun from the floor to ceiling windows leans slightly over the edge of the windowsill. It reaches to heaven but falls halfway. It is cowardly. You sit on the ledge. Your tears sparkle diamonds. It could just be the sea but you stay afraid. Who’s you again?

It’s two in the morning and you’re in that bed again. There is no sky. There are no clouds. All you are is the glow of the moon, the glow of the screen in front of you: the blanket wrapped around your shoulders. Cold solitude. Burning touches. You text, suddenly.

2:04AM – YOU
Who’s you
again

2:05AM – YOU
New phone?
Or are you on that
two a m haze
again

2:05AM – YOU
Whose you,
again

2:05AM – YOU
well.
You’re

2:06AM – ME
Mine.








Thank you.
(again.)