It wasn’t the humidity or the record breaking heat so rare in a cold city. Lounging around without an AC, the cheap fan was enough to calm my boiled blood – I mean, cool me off. It wasn’t that you weren’t enough, although I saw what creeps on your skin at night in your sighing state, the prickle of tiny soldiers that stomp and sabotage all those good intentioned neurons. It was, perhaps, that I was caught in the crossfire, although I knew braving the no man’s land meant getting shot.
It was, perhaps, the silence after.
Last year you were my arms, carrying boxes of junk attached to memories I tried to throw away myself.
Last month you were my legs, running to my finish lines long after the sunrise kept putting me to sleep.
Last week you were my neck, turning my head from directions I wanted to see.
Last night you were my lips, sewing them tight when I was thirsty.
Tonight you are my eyelids, snapping them shut.
Trust me I may dig too deep, pry you open with my claws and rummage around for treasure. I may stun you, each of my fingers are tasers. I may collapse from the weight of wanting more, curl up, drown in my own liquifying words that never leave me but catch in my throat. Can you watch me suffer? Or even notice?
3:00 pm Nothing exists but us. 4:00 pm I sketch your smile on the window. 5:00 pm I air the room with your scent. 6:00 pm Your laughter becomes the birds. 7:00 pm Parts of you become this room. 8:00 pm Your legs are the frame of this bed. 9:00 pm Your freckles are the sparkled light of this lamp. 10:00 pm Your hair is the fabric of this duvet. 11:00 pm Our hands make their way beneath this duvet. 12:00 am My voice is viscosity when I say your name. 1:00 am Your voice is liquid when you say my name. 2:00 am I sink in the sound waves and drown in my name. 3:00 am Your sighs are hurricanes as you fall asleep.
For Sloan Porter, the art of poetry has been an all-consuming journey since a young age. As a writer and interdisciplinary artist, she’s most interested in exploring a darker side, the questions that linger at night, and the passions that drive us. Her work first appeared in Montréal Writes, The Sirens Call, and The Journal Of Undiscovered Poets. She is currently working on a full-length poetry collection. Find her on Instagram @sloan.porter.poetry