leaving justwrite

I keep pebbles underneath my pillows, grind smooth, round stones into towers of sand, pillars I would wrap myself around if I were a vine, my fingertips sprouting when they touch you, my tongue aching for sunlight. I trace your shadow onto the tile floor in my kitchen, tell myself you've never looked so beautiful when really I'm thinking about the oranges in the bowl on the counter, wishing they were blueberries at the end of June, swollen and purple and as warm as the air. I cough all winter. You tell me it's because there's frost in my throat, creeping up my vocal cords, spilling cursive patterns along the dome of my mouth. My breath is cold. My palms smell like soil. I press them into the earth and expect something, maybe music or silence or something in between, something both heavy and light to dance across my arms. Instead, I have two dirty hands and two unimpressive handprints, so small they will disappear in a few seconds, as soon as the rain comes. I am waiting to grow more skin, thicker or softer or darker maybe. I am waiting to grow a shadow. I feel it peeking out from the soles of my feet some mornings just after I get out of bed. I feel its fear, then cold tile, then nothing but skin. You told me once that I was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen, but you were staring at the apple tree in the yard, wondering if the fruit it would grow would be red or yellow. I whispered "yellow" while you screamed "red." I ground my words into columns of sand while you walked away. I'm afraid you'll become salt sometimes, but you don't look back.