Brief Residencies

These poems move through hums and silences, seafoam and static, voices that vanish before they finish speaking. They carry the shape of absences that never settle, gestures that almost touch, sweetness where it does not belong.

I. Refrigerator Light

I talk to the fridge light—

the only thing

that waits for me to open up.

***

The microwave blinks twelve,

daring me

to admit I don’t matter.

***

I forget my voice

when it isn’t

apologizing or breaking.

***

Once, I left the TV on

to hear strangers scream—

as if someone

might still listen.

***

My coat remembers the door.

I stare at it like a dare.

II. Missing Person

I left myself on a bench

outside a Walgreens.

No one even paused.

***

Security footage shows

my shape thinning,

then unraveling—

pixel by pixel,

like a girl

who forgot she was real.

***

I wore a hoodie

that wasn’t mine.

Maybe that’s why no one asked

if I was okay.

***

Even my ghost has

somewhere better to be.

III. What the Sea Foam Left Behind

You touched my wrist like it wasn’t a mistake.

The gulls wheeled above, half-interested,

and the tide curled back, polite as a sigh.

We didn’t speak.

That was the kind of afternoon it was.

***

You stood barefoot,

the cuffs of your linen pants damp with salt.

I watched the sea retract,

leaving lace behind in the sand—

a gesture so soft it almost meant something.

***

You told me seafoam isn’t made of hope,

but of broken things:

shells ground to powder,

plankton bursting into bloom.

Still, I held a piece in my palm

and thought: this is the closest we’ll get

to saying it.

***

I loved you,

but we never said it aloud.

We just kept brushing hands

like it meant less than it did.

***

You stood barefoot,

watching the tide remember

everything except your name.

***

I said nothing—

just let the waves

take my questions

like they were yours to answer.

***

Seafoam lingers

where the water could not stay.

I stayed.

***

My fingertips held the moment

the way cliffs hold light at dusk—

briefly and with reverence.

***

I watched you leave

like you never wanted to,

but you did it anyway.

***

Some loves retreat

the way oceans do—

slowly, then all at once.

But they still wreck the shoreline.

***

Later, the wind tangled our names into sea grass.

No one untangled them.

No one needed to.

***

Now I come back

each morning

to the same pale hush

between longing and low tide.

***

Maybe hope is just

what the water forgets

to carry away.

***

We don’t chase it.

We just wait

to see what it leaves behind.

IV. Things I Forgot To Say

I meant to say I love you

when your hand brushed mine at the mailbox,

but the moon rose too suddenly,

and I forgot the alphabet.

***

You smiled like a secret

you weren’t ready to keep,

and I counted your freckles

like minutes we hadn’t wasted.

***

You asked what I was thinking.

I said, “Clouds.”

You laughed—

and I fell down a flight of heartbeats

I’ve been limping through them ever since.

***

Once, I dreamed you into a story

and left the ending blank—

not out of fear,

but because I wanted to watch you write it.

***

You are a kind of gravity

that teaches the tide its manners.

And I am the shore that forgets

and floods when you speak softly.

***

I meant to say I love you—

with flowers, or fire, or something cinematic.

But you showed up,

hands in your pockets,

and I remembered,

***

Love is not a declaration.

It’s the staying.

V. Sweet Like Strawberries

They sold us a version of romance—

roses dyed too red,

plastic thorns,

cellophane whispering like it knew a secret.

***

A man outside your apartment,

boombox raised,

his face all noise and no answer.

***

Maybe—

he texts first.

Maybe—

he asks your father for permission

like your name is a safety deposit box.

Maybe—

he spells I love you

on the fogged glass

of your rear window

and it vanishes

before you even look back.

***

Then the illusion cracked.

It didn’t go loud—

it just stopped being quiet.

***

It didn’t feel like love letters.

It felt like

curfews.

Blueprints for cages

painted the color of family.

Tear gas hissing

where lullabies used to be.

***

Romance became a man in a hoodie,

spine bent like a slingshot,

throwing a strawberry milkshake

through the window of an ICE van.

***

The only honest bouquet

he’s ever held.

***

A pink splatter

on a bulletproof windshield.

Sweetness

where it never belonged.

***

And I swear to god

I fell in love

with the way his arm moved—

like resistance was a kind of beauty.

***

Later,

we walked home

with matching middle fingers

and smoke in our throats.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched the world

crack like a hymn breaking its pitch.

***

Like a zipper.

Like a wedding dress.

Like something begging to be unfastened.

***

And then—

he brought chocolates

for his nieces.

Took off his boots at the door.

Lit a candle.

Ran the bath.

***

The water was quiet.

The kettle sang.

Nobody said what hurt.