blame it on potstickers

i thought it was heartburn. but now i think i have a weight on my chest. a bubble in my throat. words stuck in my esophagus. i think we can go from great to distanced in one sentence. the miles stack up like dishes and bills. quickly. silently. and then all i see is space. grass fields and city streets. buildings and rows of houses. there is a city between us. and it can be gone in a sentence.