One, The

If you were here today I wouldn’t want to show you this.
I would mold the mask, burned into skin as freckles, over the face you knew so well
But hidden beneath that crisp smile, the smooth edges, the creamy white lockbox with “us” etched under the lid.
It seems I’ve gone and swallowed the solution, the key with our fingerprints embedded in rust alongside the lungs you still hold, amazingly, patiently, just tight enough so I might keep breathing
Easy. I like to think, if you were here, the drops of dust would drift and I would just exhale.
But I wouldn’t.
I need to assess by increasing increments, sets of weights stacked on a barbell, one at a time over time with time
I need to know your strength is high and won’t break someday suddenly, before I catch my breath
To prove I can still blindly walk, your eyes open, guiding fingertips on my elbow, and never need to peek.
I could wash my face and tell you
If I wasn’t so fucking petrified
If being wedged in a corner with four sides wasn’t the most nightmarish suggestion since the boogeyman and God.
I have a seven-step facial cleansing process I perform each night
And I can’t even show you this.