the seventeenth

You, Riding the Subway & Me, A Thousand Miles Away

 

The weeks without you go by slow,
leaving the days to ache, taking up
their time in my heart, one hour doubling,
somehow making it to twenty-four until
there’s only so many days left to wait.
I’m always waiting, so that leads me
to writing, to idle hands picking up the pen,
marking up paper, skin, eyes, and heart,
from my heart to yours, sharing the spool
of my consciousness in the only words
I can find (whatever comes to mind).
So many changes in a week, so much
in such small words (all we have), and
though I forget what I’ve written you, I remember
it was only a week ago that you first said

“I love you”

and now they are the words
constantly spilling from my mouth, dashed
out by my pen, burning up my bones until
I want to scream them so loud
that they’ll reach you, without
a cord I speak into to twist the ties
of distance, without the ink smearing
on my hand, without the missed messages
bouncing between subway walls—nothing
but my voice being heard
by your heart, and the air between us,
shrinking. 

 

Rebecca Ruvinsky is a student, poet, and emerging writer in Orlando, Florida. She has kept a streak of writing a poem every day since 2016, with work published or forthcoming in Sylvia Magazine, From the Farther Trees, Floresta Magazine, Overheard Lit, The Remnant Archive, and others. She loves baking cookies, watching rocket launches, and listening to music too loud. She can be found at @writeruvinsky. 

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