Kaneko Ayano singing warm and smooth through
crackling speaker, summer and morning air before
sunrise, in night cover the sky feels smaller, my hair
still smells of lingering chlorine, I press my fingers
to the speaker, feel more of those reverberations, staticky
compression of instrumentals and voice into everything

you give me, the pebbled parking lot will only be cold
for a few hours, and longer in your absence, my legs
curled closer to my body. In my right hand I crumple
this piece of paper into shapes I don’t have names for,
a metallic Twix wrapper shines gold from a clump of dead
leaves. I’m not a good enough person

to pick it up, or not recovered enough to interact
with foreign objects. Last night an old friend messaged
I love your curves, and I destroy myself on the elliptical,
swim until the corners of the room grow fuzzy
at the edges, my body incapable of higher thought, any
sensation beyond ache in my limbs

or longing for you. Sitting in the parking lot, a song
I don’t tell you I’m listening to, but I’m thinking about snow
collecting when you sent it. Pulling into your driveway
frozen over, eyeliner that doesn’t last the night, and I want
to ask you to stay, but the song is finished, the sun is rising
from the bottom of my windshield.

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Reynie Zimmerman (he/him) is a poet from Ohio. His work often focuses on OCD, sexual assault, and small moments shared with friends.