1.
the woman who mistook me for
a car-crash victim
takes the seat across from
me, holding her lips up to the world,
and she was sipped by dazzled
ceilings, by hand-roof skies,

a tiny string held up
by roses, and we paint words
on the tiles around us,

and we hope maybe someday
they will mean something
to someone.

                   I.
he looks at me sideways and
kicks his legs.

when he was a little boy
he used to threaten moths with
glass and ants with darkness, and
he would clean his teeth with
strips of cotton skin,

(we don't think he ever learned),
and he would
cover his arms and legs in water:
              "i'm a mermaid, i'm a mermaid!"

and we would watch his mother
struggle
to find the words.

                   2.
and she said, "i could've sworn it was
you in that car." and i said,
"nope."

and she bit her lip until all the skin
turned white with disturbance.
she checks my arms and legs, holds
a finger to the base of my neck,

and begins to count numbers, variables,
words off in her head, ticking haikus
made out of worry.

and she said,
                            "are you sure?"

                   II.
he leans forward. i close
my mouth. he says i am a violin,
all chords and knitting and wood and wire,

and he starts to play me.

                   One.
i begin.

my arms and legs capsize: "bones,
bones, i am made of bones! i am made of
mildew and i am made of tough, thick skin!

i am made of gnawing and i am made of biting, i
am made of teeth and nails and screws
and finishing touches, i am made of

seeds and i am made of sky; i am made
of you, i have you right here and here,
and i am made of her and i am made of him,
and altogether, we are one, we are

me!"

               i am here.
               i am here.
the steam trails off, begins to blow
into a miniature horizon across our
eyes, and i begin to lose my legs,
my buckled and belted knees.
               i am here.
               i am—

"and i—i am made of nighttime and accidents,
and mistakes and pencil shavings and—and
i am metaphors and i am suicide and i am sticky fingers,

and—and—i—could be the garland down
your banisters, i could be the taste of skin
in the back of your throat, i could be the—"

i stop.

i stop.

                   Two.
the paint dries on her hands,
red and orange and yellow,
staining her fingers fire. the tile
is bare.

he holds his legs up in the air,
still, unmoving, emotionless,
and looks at me sideways. my skin
is untouched.

he tries to speak. she breaks:
              "you sure you're not the one who died,
               the one in that car crash?"

i bite back tears, sputters. i realize
i have somewhere to be.