It’s looking like a long and complicated winter. What weeks change time, what days are these that drag in sunshine dust, swirling up colour to taint our leaves and kill them so they fall, spiralling to the ground. Touch typing, touch again. Put this in a box and bury it, hope the sweet toxins inside don’t seep out to kill the wildlife. Flora and fauna poisoned from painful misapplication of affection. There was a dream of hands last night, pale floating things that tucked my blanket in. Sensation so real I opened my eyes to fine darkness. I thought you found me sleeping.
Your picture etched inside the skull. Blue lined plans, an architect dreamt this and woke up sweating. I’m not so skilled at wielding terrible smiles and fiery words. I can only listen to what flows from these fingers in front of me. There’s a chemical disaster down by the waterfront. Tomorrows front page news. I can taste the flat death in the smoke drifting in the open livingroom door. It closes my lungs, as if it weren’t hard enough to breathe tonight. I’m afraid I’m going to be a girl and dissolve. Let my eyes plead to a non-existent heaven and once again be unable to find sleep until dawn closes my eyes. It’s easier that I never knew you.
There’s something inside of me. Under my ribs, pressing.