Two Poems

by Sabrina Sanchez

Editor's note: These two poems were the second piece published in our Morning Breath II series in February 2017. The series also includes 'Craving' by Joseph Cambonga, 'Wedding Invitation' by Dean Graham, and 'Ownership' by Abbie DeHaas.



The line is thin and rigid.

But blurs and curves

when it follows your jawline

And stalks your neck

with ease.

I count and lose count

of freckles on your face

And watch you sleep

on concrete steps.

You shift your weight.

You lean into me,

head on my head,

leg against my leg,

hand brushing my hand.

And the line –

I feel it

between our skin,

where I end

and you begin.

The line thins,

And I tremble.



Not the same

It’s not the same,

it’s incredulous  –

you laying in my bed,

fists clenched to keep

from touching me.


We used to take trains

to the end of the line.

We used to try to hide

in florescent lit stairwells.

We used to be we.

Now it’s not you and me,

but you

and me.


Your eyes full of pity,

mine filled with distaste,

we avoid certain hallways,

trying to forget memories.

Soon they’ll start to fade,

the less I think

about the we

we used to be.

Thumbnail image by Evelyn Stetzer.