By Madison Garay

god lets his feet dangle over the edge of my bed
like a toddler suspended in chloroform air a foot off the carpeted ground
thats an image of me, on a day that should’ve been my last—
the end of this timeline, branching into days that don’t exist.

this day never ends.
our distance goes on holiday
then you wipe your brow to ask how i am
and maybe we become the children
in ourselves that we lost way back then
it feels like im in high school again
staring, fixating, and perpetually fixing
the leftover undone, marked by
the bridge of your nose
and across your taut cheek.
we meet for a second,
gone away in half.