There’s a name for how we broke.  

It starts with the sound of feet trudging

up a staircase at midnight. The gasp

after taking one step too many is proof

that an object is defined by what’s

invisible within it. A chair can only hold

the weight of a person heavy enough

not to float away, and water will stay

liquid, no matter how cold, without

a speck of dust for the ice to form around.

Destruction is just the start. When a forest

burns to ash, the smoke creates

thunderstorms that bring flooding

to the now empty space. I never said

it was happy. We cracked ourselves

open and expected the cracking

to matter. I expected you to pull me

out of myself like a clam lodged

in mud, drowning at the bottom of a lake

built from my own burning.