we're paying for the view

Clean-clear-crystal-cut shot of sunshine to my throat
jagged like the peaks to the west
warm like dying leaves

I feel you less every week
remember you seconds less every day
like we’d barely met
like we’d never carved canyons together with what we thought were god-hands, just scooping out sediment like it was nothing, a river—all in a day’s preparation and a night’s work;

of course, writing about you resets the clock.

My relationship to 6s and crosses lies in my hands, and not/knowing what to do with them.
Sometimes I forget to do things, like pick up my groceries on time or clock into work, because of sleep. I shut my eyes and ignore my phone in case they’re watching—I’ll have somewhat of an alibi.

I wonder how long the excuse of threads will hold.