i pass the time, imagining
we permanently pull ourselves
inside the secret space between
goodnight and when the phone call ends.
the moment’s made of warmth and sta-
tic. god, it’s good. imagine that
we live in an apartment there:
we don’t pay rent. i think we have
a cat, and we refine the art
of taking up the space that we’ve
been given. we decide that we
deserve to stay inside when it
is raining. we decide that we
will never use alarm clocks. i
just want to be suspended there—
the pause that comes before we’re both
alone again. some pauses make
the perfect place to live, but some
are horrid, like the moment bet-
ween turning on a light, and when
the light itself appears. you see,
i think we ought to live somewhere
where warm/soft/gentle yellow light
will never be withheld. because,
why should it be? we’ve earned as much.
i’m losing touch; i can’t keep track.
which outfits have i worn this week?
each week is just a stretched-out day.
i make myself take seven naps;
i guess that means i’m doing fine.
i’m learning how to trust me, when
i say that i’ll take care of me,
and learning how to trust that i
am liked and loved and doing fine.
it’s fine. we’re doing fine, and so
we’ll keep on finding moments/paus-
es/hesitations fit for mak-
ing homes in, and the time will pass.
April Clark is a trans woman and student at the University of Washington, pursuing a B.A. in both English and Comparative History of Ideas. She started at UW as a freshman at the age of 15. She writes when she can, and has published in a handful of small journals.