You Tell Me I Worry Too Much

I hear your voice in my head like a familiar melody,
like the first chords breaking through the radio static
like the hum of my neighbor’s old jukebox, notes floating lazily
through his open windows into my bedroom. I sing along
folding laundry, brushing my hair, curling up in bed sheets
as the moon makes her way across the tired sky. I imagine
the harmony of your voice with mine
whether we would fall in rhythm or
if our pitches would be just slightly out of tune.
I do what I always do when I get lonely, imagine all the possibilities
that don’t end with you and me,
all the words left unspoken like cotton balls in my mouth
so full and scratchy against my throat I forget
how to breathe.
I try to let our melody sing me to sleep,
trace the stars with my fingertips,
squint my eyes at the sky
as if I could squeeze away the distance between us.
You tell me I worry too much, that I should just quiet
my mind and tell my heart to listen. But I’m afraid
of silence. I’m afraid
of not having the right words to sing you the song
that’s not quite ours. The song I can’t erase
from my mind but
don’t quite want to.
I’m afraid if I’m quiet I’ll lose
all the words I’ve been holding onto, all the words
to tell you that all this time
I’ve been wishing
for someone
who’s not yet mine.