Heartbeats bloom and shrink
in the space it takes
the tow truck to reach us,
an hour and ten minutes after
I’d first remembered
that we always go how have you been
your laugh sounds like home
then, unbidden, I want this
all the time
except I don’t,
not really.
I’m already paper thin
when it’s just us,
imagine what dust I would
become around you all the time,
and maybe that is what God
intended for me when He dropped
His fangs into your tire
and now we cannot be anywhere
but side by side –
our breath fogs the glass,
dotted with your confession
that you’d like to move out,
that you’re too damn stubborn
to see a therapist,
that our friend called you out on flaws
I’ve spent years writing about,
too small next to you
to ever say anything.
I say little now
and the Triple A truck cuts off
your quiet admission of what,
exactly, makes you feel
like you’re suffocating
in our apartment,
and I say “to be continued”,
but what I really meant was me,
keep choosing me —
even though,
when she chooses me,
I do not know who it is
that she chooses
Jaden Goldfain is pursuing her M.A. in Writing from Point Loma Nazarene University. Her work has appeared in CERASUS Magazine, San Diego Poetry Annual, among others. She loves Jesus, her friends, and people who either don't exist or don't know she exists. Twitter (X?): @j_goldfain
