By Marisa Rebecca

What I think of when I think of you:
That you must drive the silver car in the lot
Because it matches your hair.
You must know this about me,
That I think of you, just because,
That I continue to tell endless stories—
Continue to look endlessly for you
When I know nothing of you at all, except the snap
That woke me in the night. The snap
That was always there; the crush of it
Telling me to be who I am from the deep.
It is electric—my desire, and barbed.
It is an impossible knot threaded with an ocean of your salt.

Still there is a lapping at the shore, a tidal breathing,
A pattern of content. There is time, still.
Letting go is breathing;
Letting go is a practice.
The snap of my electric fence is a metronome,
May you be happy. May you be safe. May you have peace in your heart.
What I think of when I think of you:
You are ice,
You are the last day of ice on the pond.

Marisa Rebecca is a graduate student of Public Health. She is a reader, writer, diarist, happily married and living in Vermont.

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