conversationsa stare gently tappingnibblingat the whites of my peripheral(turn)the fifteenth fleeting conversationof this hour lengthened.black irises speakingtruths unspoken yetand the friction of twooverlapping seconds, intoa collapsing melt of misdirectioncan you once moreI pursue?
in the attic loft at the rainI don't know what day it isand I don't know why I'm herestaring out of the big glass windowin the attic loft at the rainPerhaps I seek a quiet placeaway from the noise of lonelinessfrom his fingers crawled across the keyswhile I lay on the floor unnoticedMaybe I need to wash my mindmy dirty sheets, not physically but tobleach away the things I've feltthat I don't want to feel againPerhaps I seek a space to dreamof something far too far and fetchedand distant, but at least it's thereto envelope and cradle meMaybe I need to watch the grassas it soaks up the fallen rainthat satiates its every quenchbut still
Omit thisI must omit thistantalizing futurefrom my quilt of comfortEach square has beenfortuitously stitchedand embroidered with confusionVibrantly, I aminjecting my chaoticdysfunction into myselfSlowlydethreadingthe redsQuietlyeating meup
SnakesTimeis the vacuum of persistent trafficon the midnight-dampened asphaltand its echoes of dim headlights that sliver like snakes across the cielingechoes that hang down above uswith sharpened fangsthey bite the sleeping
Sta.sh
