Russell Justwrite 4

Lazy Sunday morning with no water but fruit, half an apple in my abdomen while I think about the shape of your heart and try to name it but can never think of anything but the pulse in your neck that I try to taste with my fingertips, but always from too far away. I tell you about the lazy Sunday afternoons playing scrabble with my grandmother, and you never call me back. I stop waiting. My childhood is a heavy bucket full of rocks, a can pulled from the weeds and kicked all the way up a mountain, tunnels in the snow, and hot stroganoff because it's a weekend and we had to do something with the egg noodles. My dad calls me to say he has to go. I call him to yell but end up laughing. He worries about my future. I ask him where he's been. The page turns and it's tomorrow, just another Monday, notebook paper and half-hour lunches, nothing to think about but the knuckles in my fingers, how they turn white when I clutch your arm, how they bend all day but I'm never impressed. I used to hate them. Now we barely think about each other. I can tell they're dwelling on the past. My phone vibrates during class and I don't look down to see who it is. I have nothing left to say.