a week of waking up with lead in my bones adulthood cuts through the air i breathe in the sharp monotones of hourly water reminders. a baby spider wills fifty-six different muscles to traverse planes of a bathroom wall and challenges gravity along the way. the sunlight wins a game of tug-of-war against my eyelids and i wake up with a hungry mother's prayer on my lips. i am running out of breath and i want the world to stop spinning for a goddamn second. there is a theory that

Class notes my appetite expanded with him. food was his love language. the fancy juicer saw his impulsive, almost untameable hunger. i am not sure if i regret how we spent hours deciding what to eat, instead of kissing each other. we made caramel pudding together. i never liked coconuts as much, so every other day, he'd make some magically scrumptious dish with it. you can't help but fall in love with him, and coconuts. one morning, it rained cats and dogs, and he brought me