Andrea Busch


and I would ask you to hold your breath, there is a lark in the distance and I can hear it now.

a faint call that rings across this stillness--the only disturbance the steadiness of your inhale--

because you do not listen, you do not care and you are still breathing like it is your right and it



I met you eight years ago in a grocery store parking lot. we tumbled into something unknown.

back on that day we did not know stumbling through the forest and lost and angry

I would hold back my heartbeat and wonder if this is my own right, if I am allowed to--



a nobody told me once that the heart is a muscle and that it beats and works the same.

that is what it means when people say that their heart clenched or do they mean stomach or

can I tell my heart stomach brain to stop? because there is a lark, I can hear it now and you are



I wonder if years from now we will find each other again in a grocery store parking lot and you will not remember the look on my face and how I left you clutching orange juice, sunlight

and the words you thought weren't good enough--the ones I folded up and pressed into your



did you know that trust is an open palm. a hand that is extended towards against pressed

in the direction of something else and I don’t think you knew what it meant when I told you

they used to dance without touching. hands inches apart feeling nothing but air and radiating



you are standing alone in a forest hearing a lark because you do not know me. you are still

breathing and I know that it is crazy to ask you to stop, but my heart is pounding and my world

has condensed into the air leaving your lungs. you don’t know why we are here, and that is



the greeks thought that the heart was the liver. did you know that?

that’s why when the sun rises the eagle comes to eat it.