i write about words flipping. An austere silence of white spot.
where my mind slips like a star, a container of things.
All things small. All things big.
Sunflowers. Mirrors. Wash basins of sins. A sliced layer of a tongue.
i keep things safely like the moon keeps tides.
Often my body expands, and i talk about hallowing point of death.
A blue stigma of turgescent smell.
I write about broken ceilings, tip-toed pain seeping inside.
And numb arms floating. I am a collector of things.
I collect people. From the sideways of my pupil.
Under the quietness of my skin.
Infestation. Indentation of stains.
each finger comprises a twig of pain :loss
you count one, and a pit is created,
Countless movements of scales.
Countless movements of corpuscle.
I take the final drop of blood
lurking through the moments of us,
between the cotton moisture,
between the untold air, humid.
I become a ball of loss and regeneration.
And i write about geography instilled with hushed voices.