a rough night for castro

she reminds me to 

hear my voice in the cold

and i think of her kindly

and its weird to think that far in the future 

sometimes

but i do it out of habit

like biting my fingernails

like cracking my knuckles

and it's strange to think that other 

times i get too sad or too drunk to write

and i sit in the corner with my drink or tissue

and i make lists in my mind

and sometimes the back of my hand leading up my arm to the elbow

of all the beautiful things i want to say

and do

and pray

and think

and all that's left in the morning is a cloudy head 

or a smudgy fucked up looking arm

and i think back to all the beauty running through my mind at night

and all i can remember is how i'd say

i love her like the ocean loves the wind 

and how i'd love her like the rain loves the city

and how i loved her like the ice loves the cold

and every once in a while i laugh at myself

sitting in bed 

like an anchor to the blankets

and i find myself struggling to breathe 

and the air gets heavy in my lungs

and i find the only release these fingers have.