i think of separating yokes with him sometimes. just until it thins. till it appears we're about to break. except we stay runny and loose till we are so clear and weightless we seem invisible.

sometimes i just want us to thin out. me seated in the center of a green field covered in 6 feet high grass in Iowa.  sun at my back. in prayer with a passing breeze. Him at his desk in Brooklyn in front of the computer seated in his grind, concrete, and very little grass.

sometimes i want to be alone. in baldwin's another country. i want this without the empty breeze in the corners of me that are cold instead of cool when he does not fill them like he does now. i want alone without lonely. without the silence i want to speak back, hear his keys in the door, place his hands in my nook, spoon me to sleep. i want alone with him. around.