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Wet Paper Bag

Some nights I stare at the wall and try to stop thinking of you.
It backfires, obviously. Because now the wall reminds me of
how I can't stop thinking of you. The time has gone like
sea-trash with high tide. Faded like knee-scrapes into skin.
It's been long enough so that I have to pause to name years.
Yet still I feel like an animal in a wet paper bag.
Trapped in a tiny stagnant space. Smothered and still.
The walls are easily broken but I don't know
if I have the strength to wade through
the weight of this atmosphere. It hangs in my lungs
like cigarillo smoke. (You only smoked one once.
It was New Year's Eve and snowing. I slipped on the breakwater
and scraped my knee. You threw the butt at the surf
as the tide was coming in.)