with the tiniest glare, the lights form human figures
wailing against the liquid mist. here, i sit, abbreviated, past midnight, with
fingers counting long lonely days. between sighs i forage history, between
numbers i create perfect memories in order to exist here, now. but, without proper burial,
the secret of my darkness thrashes in silhouettes against my will. my
perfect memories tipping over exposing open wounds that ooze empty gestures.
here, i assimilate with the brutal silence in the corner.
