you hiss & it sounds harsh
like a car that won't start
hoarsely turning over.
your body convulses
oily drool leaks from the corner of your mouth
i can feel every one of your ribs and vertebrae
& you are s l i p p i n g from me.
for most of a year, music chafes me
like fabric chafing a raw wound.
& then i am stricken again.
this is a festering
i can only write about.
it’s a horrible kind of survival—
constantly moving with a reaching,
searching,
tearing kind of motion.
with enough time or indifference people reduce down to dusty, vague concepts.
furnishings draped with sorrowful sheets,
unlit chandeliers.
between silver surfaces, on your tongue, on the page
i am flattened like a pressed flower—crushed into two dimensions.
Featured photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash.
