The End of Parties - by Annika Crawford

The End of Parties

by Annika Crawford

I lay on your bed, like something spilled.

But I’ll be quiet—you know certain stains

are worse when you rub on them.

So I won’t go to the bathroom,

even though my stomach bulges the starchy case of my jeans,

and I won’t cry,

even though the smell of everything that doesn’t belong is smothering me—

No, I won’t cry.

In the room as dim and still as a held breath,

You set a glass of water next to the bed.

Is there anything else you need? you asked,

No, I said, but what I meant was, Yes, but it’s not here;

I close my eyes, and imagine casting a line of spider silk

from my heart

to the sky

it drifts across the deep nothing

like a thin crease in cloth

or a sidelong tear

and falls

into the deep fold

of one eternally waiting.

I hover through the night

through the eyes of trains

blearing white through

curtains, cracked

light running like snot

the more I wipe the more it spreads

everywhere

on your clothes

draped over the rolling chair

evaporating

the huddle

of bottles welled up like sweat on the desk

quivering frail in light of dawn

the dull sheen of posters unending

white wind on the peak of a mountain

my hair blows

below I hear

in the mist

snores softly scrape-

ing along the door

I melt

from miles

of silk

and touch

down

on the cold floor.

my head pounds.

a bar of light glares under the door

like a wound.

I creak

into the hall -

everything is there.

cabinet fridge windows

as if magnified by a droplet of water.

in the corner, I see

the couch

depressed in your shape

swelling and dwindling

slowly.

one arm rests

beneath your head.

Contact-less,

the outline of you

is unsteady as the surface of

water, like

something I can’t touch

without falling through—

God is the softest blue moon during daytime.