By Ridhika Singh
You ask me how I’m doing
and I try not to tell
I’ve been asleep for a while.
I’ve been asleep so long,
I can’t decide whether tomorrow feels like last week or next year.
My hair grows past my shoulders,
the night stretches out like it’s the only road ahead,
and all the trains are full.
All passages have collapsed for me underground,
I’m left with no way, no way out.
You ask again.
I try not to tell you how I long for winter.
I miss laughing without the weight of being too loud.
I miss the smell of wet orchids.
I miss not being a stranger to myself.
Rearranging fruits in the produce aisle.
Going outside the box and burning every box in sight.
Friends that say, “I was thinking of you.”
Maybe this is more explanation than you wanted.
I’m okay. My hands are shaking less.
I’ve missed you for too many Decembers.
I don’t know where I’m headed.
It’s not the wish
to be happy every day and night.
I don’t dread the bouts in between,
nor hold it too tightly
and grip through life white-knuckled.
I only wish I wasn’t so suspicious
of my happiness that it doesn’t feel welcome,
glances at the clock,
twists its thumb ring,
too nervous to ask for water.
Please, I’m still learning.
Let me take your coat.
Should I order a pizza?
Tell me about your dream last night.
Please, stay as long as you like.
I’ve been fixing the house for years,
dusting corners, folding the ghosts’ laundry,
saving a seat at the table
in case happiness ever decides to be my house guest.
Some days I feel like the ghost,
haunting this body I borrow.
I dress the skeletons so they look like me,
To deceive and discern, to rehearse who I am,
Then leave before anyone hears the clatter of my bones.
And still,
lately I feel
as if I’m watching my life
from the smeared reflection
of a passing train.
I don’t break my gaze.
My feet don’t cross the yellow line.
There’s no way to tell where it’s going
once it leaves,
but I didn’t make it in time.