“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.
omg jon
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