i. five a.m. dreaming out the windows, eyes open and doors unlocked. chopin’s nocturnes on repeat as if i can somehow fill this cavity with moonlight in the form of a song.
 
ii. tell me, have you ever felt like a thousand pieces of a thousand people all at once?
 
iii. this is a lullaby, or perhaps an apology to myself. i’ve forgotten what it means to sleep without the flutter of your heartbeat next to mine.
 
iv. sometimes i feel like a dozen tectonic plates always shifting, never at rest. there’s a chasm between my ribs and i named it after you.
 
v. friday night dancing under the streetlights, a song in my throat as i build myself up from the ground. still learning how to pick myself out of the shipwreck, still learning to accommodate the fracture lines across my skin.
 
vi. i am the thousand people i’ve been before, i am the thousand people i have yet to be. i am learning to love every one.