Sleeping is the Only Love

KAYLA CZAGA

Lately I’ve seen your face fried onto a whole lot of cheese sandwiches. Spent several sad lunches traipsing your web presence. Links linked me to your namesake, a patent attorney of Hillsboro, Ohio where a water tower looks lonelier than you ever looked out over an empty football field. Yesterday a street band covered that Silver Jews song, you know the one, and a boy’s back in the crowd looked like your back, bobbing like a life raft in the ocean of a stranger. Above us clouds cobbled together that look you couldn’t pull off and parted to a cool nothingness like the concave theatre inside my skull where you are projected, an image my brain flips upside down to flip right side up. There replays the morning your room reeked of multivitamins and I ran weeping down Cook

Street, seagulls heaped like Kleenex on the curb. Today my Kleenex are giant inedible popcorn pieces. My look descends into my lap where even in their rumpled nothing shapes I see your face.