Life is precisely

the coiling of a wick as it burns

entertaining shape with the right catalyst,

until it chars,

crumbles,

becoming un-life:

coughing out phantoms of purpose.

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Pinned

“Everything dim hums,

Our fingers glide along this fragile state

Disrupting soft noise

with felt.”

 

This is a splinter

that I fell for

and mull over,

for want of…

 

Of words that could have been

or had been said better

Or maybe…

 

This splinter, I

want, am, feel often

is a constant

of dreamless night:

this in lieu

of a confidence

in completeness;

 

This splinter,

a ritual

every

night

for the demon in mirrors:

I toss and turn

to resolve its energy.

 

I suffocate in this dimness, as

a throat feels rasp in sync

to this place, alone

undeserving of teeth.