the streets here are lined with trees but
there's nobody outside and it's so quiet
that if you listen,
you can hear the wind as it moves through them,
the soft rustle of the leaves
like the sound bodies used to make
when they brushed up against one another,
back when we could still touch,
back when we talked about space and
it was still personal,
back when it still belonged to us,
but now we're scared
and i cross the street to avoid figures still out of focus in the distance,
and still
i'm alone,
holding my breath,
reading signs posted in windows,
all the ways we find to say that
we're still here
without having to make a sound,
and i'm still here,
too,
thinking about the collective conscious
slowly unwinding like a knotted ball,
rubbing my clean, dry hands,
reading stories about people on ventilators,
being reminded of things i fight so hard to forget,
my chest tightening
at the thought
of how many more people have those memories now,
new knots in the ball that cannot be unwound,
goodbyes over cell phone screens,
goodbyes through static,
at least i got to touch your hair,
at least i got to write you a letter
for the ICU nurses to read over your still body,
but now there is no more time
for ceremony,
there is no more space
for letters,
there are no more words
to describe the depth of the loss,
there are just cardboard boxes left on the porch,
there are just cardboard boxes left on the side walk,
with fruit picked from my neighbors trees,
olive branches,
and a lot of sidewalk art,
a lot of messages written in chalk,
a lot of ways to say
we're still here
without having to open our mouths.