it was a buzz in the fist
then a stone in your throat,
it was nothing.

it was lips pressed,
stasis.

it was a whisper.

it was the dark thing that twists
the bright band of your iris

so they stop looking for the broken wires.

it was the electric,
the crackle of blood
seizing in a broken vein.

it was nothing.

I am not afraid of these spaces,
these breaths, but the tight places.
the child sleeping in my elbow.