Mirage
Some days, cracks in the earth become faults,
your fault or mine, and you don’t know
whether to expect earthquakes or lava,
but it’s both, rumbling and hissing inside you.
Some days, space twists and warps and not
in the way you had hoped because the stars
are no closer but your front door feels distant.
Some days, music decomposes
into noise, sunlight rots and darkens,
sleep is just getting swallowed by a swamp.
Other days, you breathe like it’s your first time,
your feet learning to tread on quicksand,
your eyes seeing sparkles in the desert, afraid
it’s a mirage, and it is, but one where a burning sun
is a friend’s arm on your back, where a cactus’s spines
feel softer than a kitten’s fur—
it’s no beach, but you don’t miss the water
because it would only remind you
this is one long watery breath
before you’re pulled under again.