How is it I can be so disconnected from myself
but still be swept under in a wave of
nostalgia?
I don’t have feet to stand
on, to be taken from
under me, or legs to
bend and
crumble under the weight. I don’t have hands to
rise
in alarm, or a face to
scrape. I don’t have anything between anything, but I’ll keep on
writing between lines. Between lines,
and thighs of realms I won’t
touch, or linger on too long. Maybe I was
swept under, maybe I built myself a body of twigs to pretend, and mock dyeing,
Maybe.
In a mind, a picture, of
a room with girl, bed, walls, floor, brown hair, eyes, two hands, two legs, two words, too many things, and somehow not
enough.
Harlot hound hands wringing me clean dead
dry. But how, when I’m not even there. I stumble around flying far too high.
She’s turning pages, and
listening to me read, and
she’s running around, that girl does
listen to
me.
Clear as day I run to
that
her
girl, I don’t seem to mind
the smile, or the warm smell of fall, wool sweaters, tea in big round cups, naked legs, and hands, and words, and
she strips my stripped body, of
skin, and shadows,
making a bed with blankets she disappears under. I lift the blanket of pale glass to find only a pile of freckles, dust, and that smile.
And I remember nothings mine,
which I never owned it, and that I’m not at all
magnificent.
People do disappear anytime they want.
Much like I’ve done,
though I continue to somehow burn arms with cigarettes, and hear noises, that flash my reflection white,
grinning, and
gaunt.