what is it to be whole?

to don midnight with nothing on your sleeves
but riddles on your lips,
murmured with razor-rage
because pain is worthy of speech
but only in pure, sweet darkness
where there are no shadows

is a fragile beast
ready to climb down the silent shadows like vines
spread out against
all odds

this thought

it’s minor, but so alive, this thought:
a thread whistling against the sinking leaves
weaving a cloud for a bit of rain
this thought

this pause

this pause begins to take shape in my mind— long and warm with damp brown edges — it must’ve fallen in a puddle somewhere beneath your window outside your bedroom. perhaps, this pause is half a dozen bottles sunken in a bathtub full of blank notes. or, a shadow meandering down a velvet highway at midnight seeking revenge. or, a figure revisiting a conjecture over a ruptured bridge overlooking nothing, but an estranged space on a blank screen. or, this pause is existence.

...

there must be a point to all these obscurities:
i think i glimpse it--it is in the form of a punctuation.

the switch

sometimes my thoughts are suddenly interrupted by speech, and then i realize it is my own voice speaking a language I sometimes forget i speak.

false demeanour

sometimes I feel that my heart is so full of weakness, as though it were a droplet suspended in my body by a diaphanous string suddenly set ablaze. a rant, a war, a comma, a whisper, awakened. sweat-escapes and riverbanks flow with censored content conceiving warm colours and a burst of siren lights. exposed. it, i, quiver. this fragility is bleak--an open space with lonely railroad tracks, cool eyes and no music. the heart is burning alive.
i replace my heart with a moon or a suitcase at the door.
it is only a feeling , but this feeling is oh so exhausting.