Sarah Henstra

The sound of your voice pressed on my chest like my ribs had shrunk. My throat felt like I’d been screaming

he said, let’s not be the type of people who think about cleaning up the whole time we’re making a mess.

how it felt watching you sing when you didn’t know I was in the room. Halfway between dirty and holy

Burn my letter about the other night. Let’s agree that I never wrote it. Let’s agree that I never told you anything, that you don’t remember anything, that there isn’t anything. Honestly, you know me well enough by now to know how I can exaggerate. You know I can make drama from dryer lint.

Just, please, write me back. Write anything, I don’t mind—write fake letters, write grocery lists, write Blah blah blah, over and over, to fill the page

I mean living with that kind of hope? That would change everything.

My mouth saying one thing and my hands doing the exact opposite.

I recognized that voice of yours. That turned-on, pitched-up voice from that time in my car. You said in your letter that your turned-on voice was whiny, but there was another word I liked better. Undone. That undone voice of yours.

What do you call this? you said, circling my wrist bone.

There must be a name for this, I said, digging my finger behind your bent knee

Finding out where I could touch you to make you sigh, where you would shiver and gasp, where your voice would start to climb and crack and your words would fall apart. Hands versus mouth. Tongue versus teeth

Jo. I know you were embarrassed, and I’m sorry for staring. For not being able to stop smiling. I was close to laughing aloud. You must have thought I was laughing at you but I swear I wasn’t.

I was just so happy for a second. I mean I was so happy it was making me light-headed. These little things you do. All the little gestures, your quick nervous fingers. I watch you do these things and I think, how could I ever be unhappy? How could anything ever bother me?